In My Time of Living
by Kade Riggs
Summary: After years of experiencing nothing but suffering, Dean falls down a dark path. Sam's chosen method to save his brother is roundabout, and frighteningly unorthodox.
1. We're All Haunted

_AN: Will is Jo Harvelle's son (named after his grandfather, Bill), and the story mostly follows him in order to keep an element of mystery about what's going on, although eventually it becomes clear that the entire plot does revolve around Sam and Dean. This story takes place in the not-so-distant future, and it should seem a little floaty and detached for reasons that will later be revealed...although the chapters might be in need of a little editing so it won't seem **quite **so floaty and detached;-)_

_Thanks so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy the story! _

**Disclaimer: I really like the Supernatural disclaimers that say something like...if I owned Sam and Dean, there's no way in hell I'd have the time to do something as lame as write fanfiction about them.**

* * *

"What're you, Chicken?" Elliot challenged. 

Will's features hardened, but otherwise he didn't move. His hard brown eyes scanned the property beyond the fence he leaned on, searching for any sign of something out of the ordinary. His mother had taught him a little about spirits, but he'd never seen one. He knew salt would keep him safe, and when Elliot had come up with this stupid dare, Will had made sure to swipe plenty of salt packets from the cafeteria during lunch that afternoon.

He looked down at the damp packets held tight in his palm, then began to open them one by one, dumping them into his hand and discarding the packaging.

"Fifty bucks when I come back. You better have it ready," Will informed the much larger boy in passing. He paused just before pushing open the old gate in the fence, glancing back over his shoulder. "If you don't have it, I'll kill you and take it anyway."

"Ooo," Ray Tate taunted. "Willy Harvelle's gotta kill you, E. You think he's packing a blade again? Or is he going to bitch-slap you to death?"

Will decided to ignore that last comment, even though he despised being called 'Willy' with his entire being. Instead of turning around and breaking Ray's face, he left the two boys behind, pushing open the gate and stepping through, feeling the cold, stiff breeze that kicked up the second he entered the yard. His hand squeezed tighter around the grainy lump of salt he held, making sure not to lose even a little of it.

Will had a bad feeling he might need it.

A few measured steps brought him to a window at the side of the house, and he pulled out his knife and unfolded it. In spite of his suspension from school just three days before, he hadn't ceased carrying the weapon. He just hid it better. He used the blade to turn the lock on the window until he could push it up and crawl inside.

The house was ancient. People said it'd been haunted for years, but no one could ever prove it. No one had even died there—or near there. Will's mother had said it was probably just an old house that needed to get knocked down.

The only reason it still stood was because the owners had come upon it through inheritance, and instead of selling the lot, or leveling the house, they tried to rent it out. They had to lease by the month because no one ever stayed there long.

Will lived down the street, across from Elliot. He'd seen over a dozen neighbors come and go through that house. Not even college students would stay there long. The previous summer a bunch of boys on the block had been out playing war games in the middle of the night, and the middle-aged man who'd lived in the old house at the time had come out and yelled at them, taking Elliot's air soft pistol and never returning it.

Elliot was stupid enough to think the guy might've left the gun there when he moved out. A new renter had moved in months before, and odds were better than good the air pistol was history. Will had agreed to go in and find E's gun in exchange for money, but he had his own motives for wanting to break into the house.

Will wanted to see a ghost.

His limbs had stretched out a great deal over the previous summer. He still couldn't top Elliot for height, but his mother assured him he would one day. Will didn't care so long as he didn't become one of the awkward, stumbling masses many of the boys in his class had grown into over the past two years. So far his training had kept him coordinated, and lithe. When he slipped through the window and into the house, he had the strength and balance to ensure he didn't brush any surface he didn't mean to, didn't make the slightest noise.

Will dug his flashlight out of the pocket of his jacket and flipped it on, keeping his salt ready.

It was a dank, foggy day in October, and he was standing in a possibly haunted house.

Time to get to work.

* * *

He flashed his light around the small mud room he'd entered, quickly deciding he wouldn't find anything of interest in there. Some old pairs of muddy boots sat along one wall next to a box of tools that might've been as old as the house itself. 

Will moved quietly out of the room, finding himself walking down a dark hall that smelled strongly of mold. Step after step, he went forward, trying to step lightly and avoid creaking boards in the flooring.

By the time he reached the kitchen, he could hear his own heartbeat in his ears, in spite of telling himself not to be afraid.

There were dirty dishes everywhere. Newspaper too. Most of it old, and none of it recent. A heavy-duty knife rack hung on one wall, and Will approached it, his curiosity piqued. There was nothing he loved more than a good knife. His grandmother had taught him the basics of knife fighting at a young age, and he practiced in secret. He'd wanted to buy a balanced blade for years, but he didn't have the money, and he wasn't sure his mother would allow him to have one. She barely put up with his three inch foldable knife, deeming him too impulsive to be trusted with a more dangerous weapon.

Will looked over the rack's contents, and his eyes settled on a simple blade with a black grip. He held his flashlight in his mouth, and, hand shaking, reached out to take it, examining it under his light.

The letter 'S' was engraved on the flat of the blade near the hilt just before the steel curved to its elegant, yet sturdy point.

It was beautiful, and he wanted it, but his mother would want to know where he got it from. He could professionally con anyone else, but his mom could always tell when he was lying.

A whisper behind him caused him to whip around, his eyes searching the darkness. Will felt his heart start to race, and if he hadn't held his flashlight in his mouth, his breathing probably would've come faster too. He could've sworn he'd felt a presence nearby. He thought for sure something had walked past him while his back had been turned.

He put the knife back, taking his flashlight and shining it around, finding himself completely alone.

"Ain't afraid of you," he said under his breath, stepping forward, his eyes flicking back and forth purposefully. "You wanna tango, you show your fucking face and we'll dance," Will informed the presence he suspected was just beyond the edge of his vision, just out of range of his senses.

An icy hand dropped on Will's shoulder and violently turned him. He tried to go with the motion and strike back in kind, but his attacker was too fast, and far too strong. Will felt his feet leave the ground, and lost all the air in his lungs in a loud 'oof' when he came crashing down on the kitchen table.

His flashlight had gone flying, but Will could see the thing hovering over him, holding a knife to his throat to keep him pinned on his back on the tabletop. It was a man. A man who must've died in the prime of his life, because in spite of the scars on his face and forehead, he still appeared young. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and from what Will could see, the man had been freaking ripped at his T.O.D.

Will attempted to struggle, but the blade's edge was sharp. The spirit didn't have to exert pressure to make a shallow cut in the sensitive skin of Will's throat—he just had to keep it tight under Will's jaw while the boy wiggled.

Finally rediscovering his wits, Will threw the salt in the ghost's eyes, praying to God it would make him disappear.

* * *

"Fuck!" the ghost growled, shutting its eyes against the onslaught of tiny crystals and turning its head away, never letting its grip falter. 

Will laid on his back, perfectly terrified. If salt didn't work on this thing, what the hell was he going to do?

The man turned his attention fully back onto Will, one eye still shut, but the other open and glaring down at him. "What the hell is wrong with you, kid?" it asked, grabbing hold of Will's jacket and roughly brought him to his feet so he stood face-to-face with the spirit, looking up at it. The knife fell away, and suddenly Will found himself free to run, punch, scream...

"You don't know you're dead, do you?" Will opined when he saw the ghost wiping vigorously at its eye, trying to get the salt out.

The man laughed sardonically. "Oh, I'm not dead, you little bastard. I'm tired, and hung over, and since you won't let me pass out in peace, I'm tempted to make you very, very dead. What the fuck are you doing in my house?"

"I came looking for you," Will said, wondering how he could convince the ghost he was telling the truth. "I've seen you haunting the street. You stand on the sidewalk and stare at my bedroom window in the middle of the night every Thursday, and then you walk down here and disappear. It started a few months ago, and I always know when you're out there because it gets really cold in my room. It's gotten kind of creepy, so I decided to check it out."

"Great," the ghost intoned, laying down the knife he held on a near-by counter. "That's just terrific. You think you're a hunter, and you rush in when you have no idea what you're facing. What if I was a werewolf? Or a guy with a thing for little boys? You thought a little salt would save you from someone seriously evil?"

"No," Will replied. "But this might," he said, right before he sent a right hook flying toward the man's face.

Not even his mother could've topped that dude for speed. He blocked Will's punch and grabbed his outstretched arm, swinging him around and letting him go flying into the wall.

Will slid to the floor, coughing and sputtering, his ribs throbbing where he'd slammed into the counter.

The ghost stood over him, shaking its head. "You're going to have to come back when I'm completely wasted if you want to catch me off guard with that busch league bullshit. You're looking for an angry spirit that won't rest? Look somewhere else. Or better yet, go be a kid. Play in the sun, mow your lawn, get a girlfriend. I guarantee if you keep exploring the dark corners of the world it'll get you killed, boy."

The man turned, walking away and leaving Will sitting on the kitchen floor.

"Wait," Will said. "If you're not dead, prove it. Tell me your name so I can look you up."

The man paused, and then turned his head, glancing at Will over his shoulder. "I can't. Reading up on me would give you nightmares, kid. You're too young, and too green. Go home to your mommy," he said dismissively.

Will's face took on its best stubborn look, and his eyes narrowed. He spat the only word he could think of at the stranger's back. "Jerk!" he half-shouted, hoping the force he put behind it wouldn't sound childish.

The man turned, his features a perfect picture of cocky self-assurance. "Bitch," he shot back nonchalantly, perfectly comfortable with sinking down to the immature taunts of teenaged boys.

Will's furrowed his eyebrows in a confused expression, and the ghost smirked upon seeing it, then turned and walked out of the kitchen.

* * *

_"Bitch."_

_"What're you calling me a bitch for?"_

_"You're supposed to say 'jerk.'"_

_"What?"_

_"Nevermind."_

_-Dean, Sam--What Is and What Never Should Be_

_AN: I decided to put a Supernatural quote at the end of chapters. Let me know your favorites and I'll be sure to include them somewhere down the line:-) _


	2. Naming Ghosts

Will opened his eyes to his dark bedroom. He'd woken up suddenly, and when he exhaled he could see his breath.

It wasn't Thursday, but sure enough when he looked outside, he saw the man standing out on the sidewalk, facing Will's window.

He got up and pulled on jeans and a t-shirt, grabbing his house key on his way out the front door.

The man stood on the same spot, as though waiting for him. Will approached him cautiously.

"I didn't know ghosts could get dressed," he commented, referring to the fact that the man wore work shirts under a heavy leather coat as opposed to walking around shirtless.

The man stood in silence, still staring at Will's bedroom window, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his well-worn jacket.

"You know," Will commented. "For a guy who's not dead, and not into little boys, you seem to spend an awful lot of time spying on me while I sleep."

"My willpower breaks down when I get smashed," the man finally said.

"What?" Will asked, unable to discern any meaning from the man's words.

"It's a college town. Lots of the bars have drinks specials on Thursday nights because the liberal arts students usually don't have classes on Fridays. They throw me out at two in the morning and I pause here on my walk home. It's become an extremely unhealthy habit, but I have learned one thing from it."

"What?" Will prompted after a moment, and the man turned to look down at him.

"I might not be crazy after all," he replied matter-of-factly.

Will didn't ask him to explain, he simply waited, wondering if the man would explain when he was ready. When no more words passed between them after a long moment, he again asked the question that had nagged at him for the past two days, ever since he'd broken into the man's house.

"What's your name?" he asked.

The man dropped his head, looking at the ground and then up at the sky. "Ah, fuck," he said. "I shouldn't tell you, kid. I really shouldn't. I should pack my shit, get in my car, and start driving. I was all ready to get out of this town, and then you had to break into my house and prove I'm only mostly coo-coo for cocoa puffs."

"Name," Will pressed stubbornly, sensing he was close to obtaining the information he sought.

"Your mother would kill me with her bare hands if she found out I tracked you down."

"Name," Will demanded again, his voice becoming icy as fear began to dredge up inside him. Anyone from his mother's past had to be bad news.

The man sighed, his last defense apparently faltering. "Dean," he said at last. "Dean Winchester. In the flesh. For the moment, anyway."

"You're a hunter."

"I was once."

"You know my mom from the Roadhouse."

"Originally, yes. My father hunted with your grandfather, and ended up getting him killed. That's who you're named after, isn't it, Will? Jo's father—Bill Harvelle."

Will nodded sullenly. "Yeah, I'm named after him. That doesn't explain what you're doing here, though. If you're alive, which in my mind is still not a certainty, and you're not a hunter anymore—what're you doing?"

Dean sighed heavily, reaching up to scratch at his short hair. "I ask myself that same question every day. I've spent the majority of the past ten years either drunk or hung-over, running from the Feds, scraping by for money, and trying to convince sorority girls I'm really only twenty-eight. I retired from hunting five years ago, but then I got a call a few months ago, and it was too big to pass up."

"Here?" Will asked. "In this town?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah, here. All the signs were cropping up, the ducks were falling into a row, and then I got here and everything quit. It's like he knows I'm here."

"Who?" Will asked suspiciously. "Who knows you're here?"

Dean took a sharp breath through his nose, wiping at his face, his eyes flicking back and forth at the darkness surrounding him—as though looking for some unseen enemy. "You still wanna see a ghost?" he asked, not giving Will time to respond before walking off down the street.

For a moment Will thought about returning to his house, going back to bed—but the offer of finally seeing something supernatural piqued his interest, and he followed after Dean, jogging to catch up with the tall man.

* * *

"There she is," Dean said softly, waking Will from his light doze.

Will sat up in the passenger seat of Dean's car, wiping at his tired eyes with the back of his arm and leaning forward to look out the windshield.

A woman came into view. Slowly and gracefully she crossed the cemetery, pausing in front of a headstone and kneeling down before it.

"Heard rumors about her the first week I was in town," Dean said, his vigilant gaze never leaving the woman's form. "She's on the lunar cycle. Goes and visits her husband's grave when the moon is at three-quarters. Same thing every month. Walks over, sits for a minute, and then disappears."

Will watched, suddenly feeling a little sad. "Why haven't you put her to rest?" he asked, turning to look at the ex-hunter sitting beside him.

Dean half shrugged. "She's been dead fifty years and hasn't gone crazy and started hurting people yet. I figured I'd let her do what she's gotta do. Some spirits have unfinished business, and sometimes they need the chance to finish it, no matter how long it takes."

Will turned to look at the woman again, only to discover she'd already disappeared. "Whoa, she's gone," he said, looking around the make sure she hadn't just moved away.

"She'll be back tomorrow night, and the night after," Dean said, reaching forward to crank over the beast of an engine he had in his old car. "Show's over, kid. Probably time to get you home before you fall asleep on me."

* * *

Will reluctantly got out of the car after Dean pulled up in front of his house, dropping him off. He closed the passenger side door behind him, and turned around to lean against it, talking through the open window. "Hey, Dean—you're not leaving town, are you?" he asked, shoving his unruly bangs out of his eyes so he could look at the hunter, and try to guess at his mood.

Will couldn't remember ever meeting anyone in his life who kept things as close to the vest as this Winchester guy. Will suspected Dean was a well schooled con-artist, and a liar when necessary—but in spite of knowing that, something about the guy seemed implicitly trustworthy.

"I'll be around—for a while," Dean said. He reached into his coat, retrieving something from an inside pocket over his heart. "Here, this is for you," he said, handing over a small parcel that was heavy for its size.

Will weighed the object in his palm, looking confused. "What is it?" he asked.

"Protection," Dean replied. "Against evil, not against STDs. You want a ride on the town bike, you're on your own, kid," he deadpanned.

Will smirked, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, like that'll ever happen. If you had any idea how my mom and grandma hover over me..."

Dean smiled back, shaking his head. "Don't knock it, boy. It only sucks to have a mother until you don't have one anymore. Believe you me."

Will smiled. "Yeah, maybe. See ya, Dean," he said, taking a step back from the car and watching it slowly roll away.

"See ya, kid," he replied, reaching over to put the car in gear and letting out the clutch.

When the black Impala was well out of sight, Will untied the small bag, finding the lacing used to secure it was actually a necklace with a charm on it, and inside the bag itself was the knife he'd thought about stealing from Dean's house. Will took it out of its sheath and stared in awe at the engraved 'S' shining bright on the blade in the three-quarters moonlight.


	3. Silent Treatment

AN: Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed. Now that I've seen the first half of the season finale, I have a feeling like some of the little details of this story might have to change, but if the show goes too far off from what I'm planning for the plot I guess I'll just have to break off from the continuity.

* * *

Dean sat in the kitchen at the table, slowly turning the bottle of whiskey before him. His thumb and forefinger did all the work in making the glass object rotate and catch the light of the moon. It was a clear night—cool enough to do heavy-duty hunting without needing to take off his jacket. That is, if he still actually did heavy-duty hunting.

"He's a good looking kid, Sammy," he said, glancing at his brother across the table.

Sam sat perfectly still in his chair, his eyes staring off at nothing.

Dean sighed, picking up his bottle of Jack by the neck and taking a long swig before letting it bang back down on the table. "Dude, I know I fucked up, but that silent treatment's going to be the death of me," he informed Sam, even though he knew it was useless. If he hadn't been drunk, he probably would've shut up and soaked in his misery with his best friends—Daniels and Miller. As it was, he just kept right on pouring his heart out.

"Jo's done a good job with him, considering she's got the whole single mom thing going on. She's kept him in line in spite of that nasty stubborn streak, and she's trained him. Kid's gone stones of...well, stone, I guess. Boy needs a haircut, but other than that he hasn't turned out half bad. He's smart. Which means I'm gonna have to watch myself around him..."

Dean snerked, running his hand down his face. "Shit, what am I talking about? If I was smart I would make sure he never saw me again." He shook his head, taking another drink straight from his bottle of liquor and grimacing at the taste. "God, I hope she doesn't find out I'm in town. Her old lady would probably kill me. Shit, Jo might do the honors herself. You know she'd gut me, skin me, and then maybe think about letting me die."

Sam got up and walked out of the room, his face set with purpose all of a sudden instead of his usual brooding, blank expression.

Dean waved at his brother's retreating form. "Don't worry about telling me where you're going. I'll definitely be here when you get back. Not like I have anything better to do, Sammy. I realize I'm only your older brother, and since I'm so very unimportant, I appreciate it when you take the time out of your busy schedule to hear me out," he shouted after Sam. When no response came he felt compelled to add, "That was sarcasm, by the way. It really does piss me off when you just get up and leave without saying anything, you bitch."

At last accepting that Sam was well out of earshot, Dean resigned himself to his bottle, taking another shot from it before letting his head come to rest on his forearm on the table, his other hand still wrapped tightly around his source of whiskey.

"I hate my life," he informed himself, letting his eyes fall shut. He'd hit the bottle pretty hard, and he knew it would take a real effort to climb up the stairs to his bedroom.

In a few minutes he would pull together the energy to get up and go to bed.

Just a few minutes.

* * *

Will hardly differentiated between the times he got in trouble at school. He'd gotten caught a few times for carrying knives on him, and his mother had gotten pissed. Pissed enough to take away his blades and try to prevent him from swiping a new one.

One time he'd gotten in trouble for drinking beer on school grounds. He'd gotten into a chugging contest with a senior in the back parking lot while killing time after school, waiting for someone to come pick him up. An older boy had a warm six-pack in his trunk, and he'd bet Will twenty bucks he wouldn't be able to drink one of the foul tasting, warm beers faster than the senior class drinking machine, John Harold.

John had won on the first round, smoked Will on the second, made a comment about Will lacking genitals after the third. John fell to his knees and threw up his half of the six-pack after Will side kicked him in the gut, and continued to kick him in the ribs until a teacher had run out of the building and pulled him off the puking senior.

Will got in fights all the time. Every other week, at least. Even though he wasn't a huge kid, he usually won because of superior technique and endurance. His mother had taught him to keep a clear head in a fight—duck under the big stuff, let the other guy wear himself out, and then hit him hard.

He didn't think it would be a big deal when Seamore Johannes, the Vice Principle, pulled him out of class and dragged him to the office. Will still felt unconcerned when he learned his locker had been subjected to a random search, and his new knife had been found inside. He almost felt like he had a justifiable chance for not getting in trouble, considering he hadn't given anyone permission to search his locker, and he hadn't been carrying the damn thing on him anyway. He'd just taken it to school so his mom wouldn't find it and take it away 'until he was old enough to take care of it,' like she did with all his other knives.

His mother sat down next to him in the Vice Principle's office after ruffling his hair, took one look at the knife sitting on the desk in front of Johannes, and then turned her evilest look on Will.

"Where did you get that?" she hissed, and Will's eyes involuntarily widened at the pure hate in her tone.

There were few things Will feared in the world. His mother rarely became truly angry with him, and she'd never spoken to him like that before, but he instinctively knew he should fear her wrath.

It was like he was one of those things that had killed grandpa. She spoke to him with the same tone she reserved when telling him about the evil things in the world, only with ten times the intensity.

"Will, answer me right now. Where did you get that blade?" she demanded again, her eyes flashing, as if daring him to lie.

"I found it," he said, almost stumbling over the words.

"More like you stole it," Johannes put in, obviously disgusted with him. "I've already called the police. They'll be here soon to arrest you. I think we've had enough of these discussions to know your behavior will continue to repeat until someone gets hurt, Will."

Jo's eyes sank shut, and her head bowed. "Is that really necessary?"

"Under the circumstances? I believe it is necessary. Will needs a wakeup call, and he is a bigger liability than this school is equipped to handle. From the second he's escorted off campus, he will be permanently banned from the premises. I've spoken to the Principle, and he agrees Will should be expelled, effective immediately."


	4. Play to Kill

Will didn't want to talk about anything when he got home that night. It had taken hours to be processed, questioned, and finally released into his mother's care. He'd been charged with carrying a deadly weapon, and he would have a court date TBD.

He might even have to go to juvy this time, because the Vice Principle had made a written statement that he was a repeat offender.

Will wished his mother would just drop the subject, but the second they walked into the house, she started in on him.

"Where did you get this?" she asked, tossing the sheathed knife down on the kitchen table.

Will stared at his knife dully, disinclined to answer. He didn't want to tell his mom about Dean—she'd probably murder the guy, judging by her reaction to the gift he'd given Will.

"Did someone give it to you?" she demanded.

"It came in the mail," Will replied, the lie coming easily. He kept his eyes straight, not allowing them to shift around and give away his deception. "My name was on the package. I don't see what the big deal is. It's just a knife."

Jo growled to herself, using her fingers to flip her bangs out of her eyes. "It's not just a knife. It belongs to someone I knew a long time ago."

"My father?" Will hazarded, taking a stab in the dark.

His mother's eyes narrowed, and she shot him an 'I can't believe you just said that' look. "No. It didn't belong to your father..."

"He was a hunter, wasn't he."

"I don't know if he was, Will, I was..." her angry words trailed off and her mouth closed. She never could finish that sentence. Never in his entire life.

"Raped," Will finished for her, his voice low and cold when he said the word. "You were raped, and you had me. It was 2007 when it happened, and you didn't go get the 72 hour pill. You didn't seek medical assistance. I think you knew him. I think you were in a relationship you weren't proud of, and it was easier to lie so no one would put the pieces together when they found out you were pregnant. Why would you have given birth to me if you didn't care for him?"

"I've never lied about being raped, Will," she replied, her voice just as cold, and her cheeks flushed with shame. "An awful thing happened to me, and you were the silver lining. Don't you ever think I didn't want you."

Will scoffed. "Sure you do. Just not when I get in trouble and remind you of him, right?"

Jo slapped him across the face. It was quick. Too fast for him to block the blow, and sharp enough to sting. When he looked up again, he could see tears running down his mother's face, in spite of the all-encompassing rage burning in her eyes. "Get out," she hissed, turning her back on him and quickly walking away to her room.

"Gladly!" he shouted after her. "If you won't tell me the truth, I'll find someone who fucking will!" He grabbed the knife off the table and walked out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

Will walked around all night, meaning to go to Dean's, and never quite getting there. What would he say to the guy? Are you my father? You've got that stalker vibe going, so is there any chance you might've raped my mom back in the day? Questions like that directed toward a guilty man might get him killed, regardless of whether or not he was Dean's son. 

He didn't know what to do, so he wandered town, looking for somewhere to go. He passed a few people, even late in the night. They were mostly college students. A girl walking home from a late night of studying, backpack in tow. A tall guy with shaggy hair hanging in his eyes, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket and a determined look on his face. A young couple traveling between bars on their night out.

At last Will ended up taking a seat on a park bench, slouched down so he could tilt his head back and watch the stars. It had become cool in the early hours, but in spite of the hard bench and uncomfortable temperature, Will felt sleepy—exhausted from the long, emotionally fraught rollercoaster he'd ridden all day.

He figured he should probably get home, spend a few hours sleeping in his own bed.

In the morning he'd tell his mom he was sorry.

He just hoped she'd forgive him.

* * *

Will's eyes snapped open and he sat up too fast, feeling his neck cramping from staying in the same position for too long. It was morning—still early, but not that early. He must've fallen asleep on the bench. 

Will checked the phone he'd turned off the night before, and found it was already past eight. There were several voice mails waiting for him, but he figured he knew who they were from, and what they were about. He got up, jogging in the general direction of his house, knowing his mother was probably furious.

Several minutes later he came up on his house and his suspicions were confirmed when he saw a police cruiser sitting in front of the house.

Will cursed under his breath, jogging up and opening the front door, letting himself inside.

"Mom!" he called, walking inside and rounding the corner into the kitchen. He found his mother there, talking with a police officer. "Mom, I'm so sorry I made you worry—I fell asleep..." he trailed off when all she did was stare at him in horror.

"Oh God, Will," she breathed. "How could you?"

Will's brow furrowed with concern. "I didn't mean to stay out all night, seriously. I'm really sorry—I promise I won't do it again," he said, but her look of revulsion didn't change. She continued to stare at him, and so did the police officer.

"What?" he finally asked, looking down at himself and gasping when he found his entire front a mess of dried blood.

He couldn't get his clothes off fast enough. Will threw off his jacket and shucked his shirt, throwing it on the ground. "Oh my God," he said over and over, his eyes wide as he stared down at the pile he'd just made. He checked his jeans, and found his knife was gone from where he'd tucked it into his waistline.

"Looking for this?" the police officer asked, holding up a heavy-duty Ziploc bag with his knife inside.

The 'S' on the hilt glinted ominously, dulled only where the blade was covered with blood—some of it still wet and smeared in red streaks across the inside of the plastic.

"Where did you get that?" Will asked, sounding terrified, his brain too overloaded with fear to process the situation, put the pieces together. All he could think to himself was 'what the fuck is going on?'

The officer lowered the evidence bag and took out his handcuffs, taking a step toward Will. "William Harvelle—you are under arrest for the murder of Seamore Johannes. You have the right to remain silent..."


	5. Hot Sticky Sour

Will blew his bangs out of his eyes, shifting in his seat, trying to get comfortable. It was hot in the back of the cruiser. He'd long since begun to sweat, causing his bare upper body to stick uncomfortably to the old, black leather. The officer taking him downtown had decided to pull over a speeder. The cop had sat in the front seat, filling out the ticket for twenty minutes.

"Dude, seriously," Will complained. "These cuffs are killing me, and I'd like to be processed for this murder before I fucking die of dehydration!"

The officer didn't even turn around to glare at him. He didn't move from leaning over the ticket he wrote.

A few more minutes clicked by according to the clock on the car radio, and Will leaned forward, letting his head rest against the metal mesh separating him from the front seat. The metal felt cool against his cheek—for the first ten seconds, anyway.

"Come on, man. At least crack a window, or something," he said, and sighed at the silence.

Sweat rolled down Will's face and neck, tickling as it traveled down his shoulders and back. After a long night with little sleep, his eyes felt heavy, and all of a sudden he could hardly keep them open.

Will groaned sleepily, feeling a pins and needles sensation start in his upper arms. When he opened his eyes he was shocked to see a man standing outside the window, practically in the road, watching him. Will scooted over, straining his neck to look up at the tall guy.

"You the lucky ticketee?" he asked, wondering if the guy could even hear him through the car door. "Because I don't know what this asshole's problem is, but I'm sorry he had to ruin your day too."

The guy reached out and tried the handle, opening the door. He leaned down and looked at Will, then glanced around the rest of the car. His gaze paused on the seat, and he reached over to touch a crack in the otherwise smooth surface of the leather.

Will could see the yellowish substance on the man's fingertip, and shot the guy a confused look when their gazes met.

"Sulfur," the man said, wiping the offending substance off on his jeans. He reached in and grabbed Will's arm, gently dragging him out of the car.

Will jerked away the second he was on his feet outside, putting a few feet of distance between himself and the stranger. His glare turned angry, and deep in his bones he felt deathly afraid.

"Why the hell are hunters popping out of the fucking woodwork these days? First Dean, and now you? Who the hell are you, anyway?" he demanded, wondering if he could outrun this dude with his arms cuffed behind his back. Will didn't give himself good odds. The guy was tall, and he looked like he was in good shape.

The guy held up his hands, taking on a very non-threatening stance and facial expression. "No, it's okay, Will. I've known your mom and grandma for a long time. My name's Sam Winchester, and I'm Dean's brother. We're working together on this case, and unfortunately I think you've gotten sucked into the middle of it."

Will backed away a few more steps, feeling panicked. "You think? You fucking think? What the hell is going on, Sam? I've been framed for a murder I didn't commit. Or maybe I did do it, I don't know! I don't know anything except everyone in this town thinks I'm a murderer!"

"You're not a murderer, Will, but I have to get you out of here. Right now."

"Why? If I'm not a murderer, then I have to go to the police station. I have to clear my name!"

Sam sighed, glancing toward the front of the police cruiser. "That's not really an option anymore. I don't want to you to go look, but the police officer, and the driver of the car he pulled over are both dead. Their throats are cut, and the knife's gone."

Will shook his head, panicking while he continued to back away. "No. They can't be dead. I was right there! They can't be dead!"

Sam stepped forward and grabbed his shoulders. Will bucked against his grip, but Sam had the advantage in both size and strength. "Listen to me! Will, listen! They're dead. They're both dead. Three bodies in one day, and you're at the middle of it, guilty or not. I have things I need to take care of before this thing gets out of hand, and there's only one person besides me who can help you now. You have to go to Dean and tell him to get you out of town. Understand me? Whatever we're dealing with, it's going to get tired of using you for a puppet. It's going to kill you, Will. I'm not even kidding."

Will stopped struggling, sucking in ragged breaths and fighting to stop the tears filling his eyes from falling. "How am I gonna get out of this?" he asked, his voice high and strained. "I wasn't ever a good kid, and I'm so sorry for that, but my mom... My mom thinks I'm a killer," he sobbed, looking up at Sam through hot tears—feeling them run down his face when he blinked in the bright sunlight. He immediately dropped his head, deeply ashamed of his crying. "How can I ever make that better?" he asked, his voice breaking on the words.

Sam pulled him close, holding Will tight against his chest so he could cry. Even through his bout of temporary insanity, Will felt the larger man reach behind him and pick the handcuffs. When the restraints fell away, he grabbed two fistfuls of the front of Sam's jacket, and held on for dear life.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, Will felt too young and tired and scared to do anything but cry.

"I swear," he choked. "If I get out of this, I'll never fight again. I'll do everything my mom tells me. I just want to go home."

"God, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Sam whispered, sounding rushed and repeating the apology over and over again while squeezing Will until he almost couldn't breathe. "This never should've happened to you. I should've found a way to stop it."

_How?_ Will asked himself. _How could anyone have foreseen this? _

Sam gently pushed him away, holding him at arm's length, setting one large hand on each of the boy's shoulders and bending down to look him in the eye. "Listen to me, Will. I'm going to fix this—I promise. No matter what it takes, I'm going to make it better. But you have to give me time. Go find Dean, and don't let anyone see you. Got it?"

Will nodded, rubbing fiercely at his face to get rid of the wet trails his tears had made.

Sam smiled a little, ruffling Will's hair. "Good boy," he said, a flash of sorrow flickering across his otherwise smooth features. "All right, get going," he said, his eyes falling away from Will's face and his head jerking in the direction the boy needed to go.

Will turned, heading off down the street. He soon left the sidewalk, jumping a fence into a backyard and scurrying across, jumping the fence into the next yard, and then the next. He'd keep off the streets—make it back to Dean's house, and get out of town.

Will didn't know if he could trust these Winchester guys. Years of training told him he couldn't, but he didn't have a choice. Either they would help him, or they'd led him into this trap in the first place. No matter which scenario turned out to be true, Will knew deep down his life would be wrecked forever, even if he did survive.


	6. Highway to Hell

AN: Thanks so much for being patient with me. I'm kind of a slow updater sometimes. I've had summer classes lately, but hopefully when that ends after next week I'll get around to updating more often:-)

* * *

"Dean, wake up," Will said, desperately shaking the older man.

He'd snuck into the house through the same window as before, and practically tripped over Dean's body while crossing the dark living room.

Will couldn't even get a groan and a 'go away' out of the man. He was passed out drunk. If his breath hadn't smelled so strongly of alcohol, Will would've thought he was dead.

"Jesus Christ, what the hell's wrong with you?" he asked rhetorically, slapping the man soundly across the face to no avail. "Why would you do this to yourself?"

Will sat back on his haunches, and sighed morosely. Between the hours at the police station the day before, the shouting fight with his mother, spending a night trying to sleep on a park bench, and the events that had followed that morning, he was out of gas, nearly reduced to tears, in spite of his hatred of crying.

"Please, Dean," he said, sounding absolutely pathetic, and hating it. "Please, you've gotta wake up. You're the only chance I've got to get out of this. Something really bad happened, and I don't know how to fix it.

"Please," Will choked.

Will sat next to Dean's unconscious form in silence until the sun started to fall below the horizon, and then he rose, stepping over the man and walking out the front door—leaving it open after exiting.

* * *

"_You missed your chance," Sam said._

_Dean opened his eyes, finding himself propped up in a hospital bed. He couldn't feel the pain, but he knew it should've lurked just beneath the surface, ready to begin torturing him the second the pain killers lost their potency._

"_What?" he asked, unable to raise his voice above a whisper. He looked over at Sam, brow furrowed. His little brother sat in a chair by the window, elbows resting on his knees. What had brought him here? It had been so many years since..._

_Sam nodded toward the door. "You missed your chance, Dean."_

_Dean glanced over, and his startled expression stopped Jo in her tracks—her eyes wide, like a deer in the headlights._

_It took a moment to process the sight of her holding a child. The infant couldn't have been more than a couple months old. Jo had wrapped him in a blue blanket, and kept him held tight to her chest._

_After a long moment of staring at each other, Jo bit her lip and took a reluctant step forward, and then another, approaching his bedside._

"_So, I'm guessing my mom didn't tell you. She probably thought she was protecting me," Jo said softly, taking a seat on the edge of his bed._

_Dean could see the sad pride she felt when she gazed down at her sleeping son. For just a second her features softened, and he could see how much motherhood had aged her, worn her down. _

"_How old?" he asked, keeping his eyes focused on her instead of the child in her arms._

_She made a stab at smiling, but it faded immediately, and she sighed. "A few months," she replied softly._

_He winced upon processing the math, turning to stare out the window. Dean could see children playing in a park in the distance, and he wished he could go back in time, to when he and Sam and Dad had been a family, and nothing else had mattered._

"_Listen," Jo said. "I know you've had a rough go of it, but do you think you could hold him for a minute? I really have to go to the bathroom."_

_Dean nodded absently, turning his head to watch her place the sleeping child in his arms, carefully avoiding the IV in his left hand._

_Jo stood back, smiling sadly. "His name's Will," she said, and when Dean didn't respond she turned to go, her hands shoved halfway into the back pockets of her jeans._

_The tears spilled over when he finally looked down at the boy. One of the clear drops disappeared into the blanket, but the other splashed on one chubby red cheek. Will didn't stir in the slightest—not even when Dean reached over to brush the moisture away with his thumb._

_He could see the resemblance in the child he held. He could see it, and it broke his heart more than anything. Dean couldn't do it again, he couldn't suffer dragging one more person into his miserable existence for the powers of darkness to toy with._

_The tears ran in streams down his face, and by the time Jo returned his eyes were red and puffy._

"_Take him back," Dean growled at her, shoving the child into her arms when she came close enough. "I don't ever want to see him or you again, you hear me?" he asked, practically shouting. He could hear his father in his tone of voice, and the words he'd thrown out so casually in anger. He could hear Dad yelling at Sammy the night he left for Stanford, telling him to go, and stay gone._

"_Dean," Jo pleaded softly, bouncing Will as he woke and began to cry after his rough treatment._

_His green eyes burned with fury, accented by the red rim from the tears he'd shed. "Now, Jo," he whispered coldly. "Get out."_

_Jo bit her lower lip, looking down at her son before finally admitting defeat. She turned her back on him and walked from the room, never to return._

_Dean settled back into the pillows propping him up, gripping the bed rail on his left side tight enough to turn his knuckles white._

"_Do you ever regret it?" Sam asked from his chair._

_Dean sighed as the memory faded from around him. He rubbed his face with both hands, sighing as the world reduced down to him and Sam._

"_Every goddamn day," he replied, letting his arms drop hopelessly to his sides._

* * *

Quotes:

"I'm not going to die in a hospital where the nurses aren't even hot!"

--Dean, Ep: Faith

AN: If you have a fav Supernatural quote, let me know and I'll try to incorporate it, or throw it in at the end of a chapter;-)


	7. Black Parade

Dean took a shocked breath and his eyes flew wide open when a large amount of icy water slapped him in the face and chest. He tried to sit up fast, but the pain that lanced through his head kept him on the floor.

A foot impacted his side, causing another explosion of pain to rock his whole body, and knocking the air from his lungs.

The foot came again, and this time he grabbed it, twisting so his attacker would fall. Dean heard a loud 'oof,' and somewhere in his foggy brain he registered that the sudden expulsion of breath came from a female source.

Before he could catch his breath, she jumped on top of him, straddling his chest, and cocking her arm with a closed fist, ready to punch him in the face. She paused, glaring down at him, murder in her eyes.

Dean looked up at her dully, waiting for her blow to fall, making no effort to stop it from coming. "Go ahead," he said softly. "I know I've got it coming."

Jo seethed for a few long seconds before pushing down on his chest to lever herself off of him. She grabbed his arm, hauling him up with her.

Dean nearly bent over at the pain streaking through his skull. He winced, squeezing his eyes shut while the world righted itself, stopped turning around him. When he straightened up and opened his eyes, he couldn't help but realize how close they were—how she stared up at him, and then guiltily looked away, releasing his arm as if just remembering she still gripped it.

The feel of her touch lingered on his arm, but Dean tried to ignore it, casually crossing his arms over his chest.

"How'd you find me?" he asked, his voice sounding raspy to his own ears.

"Sam told me," Jo replied morosely, turning away from him, looking around. "He stopped by right after they took Will this morning. He said I should find you. I didn't listen..." she trailed off, her voice reduced to a strained whisper.

Dean rubbed at his forehead, trying to process her words. "Whoa," he said. "Sam's talking to you? Like, he actually showed up, and, like, said words?"

Jo's eyes narrowed to slits. "Not helping me find my son, Dean. The cops arrested him this morning, and now he's missing. Sam said Will would be here. He also said we needed to get out of town. All of us."

Dean slowly turned his back on her, making his way toward the old musty couch, muttering to himself under his breath. "Of course Sam talked to you. He doesn't friggin' hate _your_ guts." He allowed his body to collapse in a sitting position on the couch cushions.

Jo had followed closely behind him, her hands resting on her hips, a loose lock of hair falling in her face. "What're you doing?" she asked. "We need to find Will."

Dean yawned, making a circular motion with one hand to indicate she should continue speaking, fill him in on the details. "Come on, Jo. You know the drill. Give me everything you've got, then we bounce ideas, just like a regular hunt. How did Will get away from the cops?"

Jo began to pace before him, shaking her head. "I don't know, but it must have something to do with whatever you're hunting here. What're you after? Why'd you come here?"

"Wild goose chase," Dean replied. "The signs cropped up signaling a major demon, maybe even on par with the one we killed in Colt's graveyard. I got here and everything quit. It was a total dead end. That does happen every once in a while. Random normal events make it look like something strange is going on and..."

"Why did you stay?" Jo cut him off, her voice deathly cold. "Why not turn around and leave the second you figured out there was nothing to hunt?"

Dean's silence spoke for him. He rubbed at his sinuses with his thumb and index finger, then rested both elbows on his knees, not meeting her gaze.

"I have a right to see him," he said, his voice dropping lower than usual, keeping his emotions from telling in his tone.

Jo's jaw tightened, swallowing hard as her eyes went bright. "You have a lot of nerve, you know that?" she asked.

Dean shrugged matter-of-factly with one shoulder, still not looking at her. Not until she walked over, grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him roughly to his feet, forcing him to look at her.

"You listen to me," she growled. "I gave you a chance to be in Will's life. I tried, and you threw his existence in my face!"

"I know," he said, swallowing hard. "I know I did. I thought I could protect him, Jo. I can't tell you the things I've seen. The way these fucking demons try to mess with me—use the people I care about to screw with my head! I didn't want that for him. I wanted him to grow up normal!"

She let him go after a long pause, taking a step back and sighing, brushing her hair out of her face absently with one hand. "Okay," she said, apparently trying to collect herself. "Okay, let's start from the beginning. Sam told me to come here and find you. I ignored him and called a lawyer, tried to see if I could actually find one I could afford. Then I went down to the station, and when I got there they said they'd been trying to call me. The cop who arrested Will showed up with an empty back seat. He said Will disappeared while he was writing a speeding ticket on his way over. He got out of the car to give the guy his ticket, and when he came back the door was open and Will was gone."

"Any sulfur in the car?" Dean asked.

Jo shrugged. "I couldn't exactly ask to take a look at it. After Will disappeared I drove around, went and talked to some of his friends. Then it started getting dark and I came here. Your front door was open, by the way. Might want to try shutting it after you stumble in drunk in the middle of the night. You didn't lay any salt lines, either."

Dean's stance stiffened noticeably. "What do you mean the door was open?" he asked. "I stayed in last night." He paused, thinking. "Wait a minute..." he said, turning and walking out of the room.

Jo followed him to the mud room where they found the window open, scratches apparent where someone had used a knife to turn the lock.

"Will was here," Dean said softly. "Goddamn it. He was here and he left. Shit! Why would he do that? He would've been safe here."

"Maybe he ran into Sam," Jo offered. "When I talked to him, Sam said we needed to get out of town by tonight."

Dean reached up to rub his face with one hand, all of a sudden feeling his pulse beating like a bass drum in his ears. He turned without a word, heading for the kitchen to get some pain killers. First he had to get rid of his headache, then he could worry about finding Will.

"Dean?" Jo asked, again trailing along behind him into the kitchen. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"Honestly?" he said, grabbing a glass off the rack in the kitchen and filling it with water, the bottle of pills already in hand. Dean twisted off the top of the bottle, shaking four of the white capsules into his mouth before washing them down with a gulp of water. He winced at the feeling of them going down before returning his attention to her, setting the glass down on the counter. "I don't particularly like the idea of Will talking to Sammy."

Jo cocked an eyebrow at him. "Why not?" she asked.

Dean leaned against the edge of the kitchen table, scratching at his short hair with one hand. "Because," he said reluctantly, looking up to meet her eyes. "Because, sometimes, I'm kind of afraid Sammy isn't playing for the good team anymore."

Jo's eyes went wide in panic, and her mouth dropped open. "Wait, do you mean that..."

Dean raised one of his own eyebrows in her direction. "Come on, Jo. You're a smart girl. You were even a hunter once," he said, his tone clearly baiting her. "The second you walked in my front door you should've known things weren't kosher."

Her eyes narrowed again in anger. "Oh, believe me, I could smell the alcohol from across the room. I don't think 'not kosher' quite covers what a fucking mess you are, Dean. You actually got so drunk you forgot to lay salt lines in front of the doors."

Dean smirked—an expression he used to tease with, but over the years the look had turned dark and sinister—almost ugly. He reached out to pick up a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels off the tabletop, his practiced fingers unscrewing the cap. "Who said I forgot?" he asked cryptically, taking a long draw straight from the bottle.


	8. Under Pressure

Dean put the Impala in park and shut down the engine, staring straight ahead through the windshield at the fence he would momentarily need to scale in order to enter the local P.D.'s parking lot.

"Stay here," he said to Jo, pulling the handle on the driver side door to let himself out.

It didn't really surprise him when she got out on her side too.

She returned the glare he shot her over the roof of the car, and she quirked one eyebrow. "Considering we have absolutely no idea what's going on, do you really think it's a good idea to split up just now?" she asked.

Dean scowled, grumbling to himself while walking over to the chain-link fence. The wires bit into his fingers when he started to pull himself up, unable to get a foothold with his boots on.

Jo's smaller build proved useful in allowing her to quickly scale the fence. She beat him to the top and dropped over onto the other side, then waited for him with her arms crossed over her chest.

Dean hauled himself over with brute strength, dropping down to land beside Jo.

"You've lost a step," she informed him dryly.

Dean shrugged. "Slower and wiser, sweetheart," he said, pulling the EMF detector out of his back pocket and flipping it on. "Come on. Let's find the car Will Houdini-ed himself out of and get out of here."

The row of off-duty police cars was short, and the EMF detector started beeping a little over halfway down the line. It took a couple minutes to jimmy the lock, but soon the two of them were leaning into the backseat from each side of the car, looking over the inside with flashlights.

Jo sighed at the sight of a very familiar yellow powder. "Sulfur," she said.

Dean nodded, his green eyes scanning the rest of the vehicle for signs of a struggle. "No blood," he commented. "Still pretty hard to imagine how Will could've just walked away without anyone noticing."

Jo glanced up at him. "You ever heard of anything like that before?"

Dean shrugged, bracing himself against the frame of the car while he straightened up. "A demon could pull it off. The yellow-eyed demon stole Sam right out from under me at a restaurant once. Thing is, the YED killed everyone else inside. He only left me alive to fuck with me."

"YED?" Jo asked skeptically, also pulling her head out of the car, carefully shutting the door so it wouldn't slam.

Dean followed suit with his door, then turned to walk off toward the Impala. "Figure it out, Miss. 'You've Lost a Step.' I'm sure with your agile young mind and body it shouldn't take long," he called over his shoulder, not pausing long enough to see if she was following him.

* * *

Dean let his forehead rest in his hands. His eyes had long since gone blurry from reading, and he needed a drink, bad.

Jo let a large volume thunk down on the coffee table in front of them, leaning back on the couch.

"You find anything?" she asked.

Dean only shook his head, letting his hands drop so his elbows rested on his knees. "Demons are always a bitch. There's way too much information on the subject, and half of it is total bullshit. We don't even know if something has Will, nevertheless what has him."

Jo shifted where she sat, turning away and taking a deep breath. "Was it a sudden thing?" she asked. "You deciding you wanted to see him?"

He slowly hefted himself off the couch, walking toward the kitchen and ignoring her question. He flicked on the light next to the doorway and flinched at the shock of seeing Sam sitting at the kitchen table.

"Fuck, Sammy," Dean growled, annoyed. "You gotta knock that off, dude. Seriously."

Dean heard Jo practically launch herself off the couch and run into the kitchen. "Where's Will?" she demanded immediately, addressing Sam.

A grim smile flicked across Sam's features, and then left his face entirely. The knife used to kill Will's Vice Principle lay flat on the tabletop, still bloody, and spinning slowly—apparently under its own power. Sam stared at it as though mesmerized, his forearms resting on the edge of the table. "You're right, Jo. Dean has lost his edge. He sits alone night after night, drinking himself stupid until he can't feel anything. He won't find Will."

Dean scoffed. "I found you enough times," he grumbled to himself.

"Then you help me," Jo insisted. "Please, Sam. You know what my son means to me," she choked, putting a hand over her mouth to silence herself.

Sam drew himself to his feet, and the spinning knife slowly ground to a halt. "It's time for me to go," he told Jo, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets. He moved to leave the room, but she jumped into his path, grabbing the edges of his coat.

"Don't go. You have to help him. Please," she pleaded, valiantly fighting back sobs.

Sam slowly turned his gaze to his older brother, and the force of his attention felt like an icy kick to Dean's ribs. It was the first time Sammy had acknowledged his presence in as long as Dean could remember, and he found himself suddenly short of breath, and frightened. He hadn't felt fear sink so deep into his soul since the night his mother died when he was four years old.

"What the hell are you, Sam?" Dean whispered under his breath, stumbling back a step or two until he found the wall. He couldn't explain why, but he had to keep as much distance between himself and his younger brother as possible.

Sam's attention finally shifted away from him, and the feeling of utter despair slowly lifted from Dean's shoulders. He sighed with relief, at last able to freely draw air into his lungs.

"He'll find you," Sam said to Jo, then stepped past her, pulling out of her grip and exiting the room.

Jo watched him go, then turned tear-bright eyes to Dean, watching him straighten up away from the wall.

"What do we do now?" she asked softly.

Dean's head dropped in shame. What would they do? He had no idea. Dad had trained him for this exact situation, and Dean couldn't take the pressure. He couldn't do this last job.

"Stay here in case Will shows up," he said at last, grabbing his keys and walking out of the house to the Impala.

Jo tried to protest, told him they should stick together, but he didn't listen. Dean had a mission to complete, and he was going to finish it, even if it killed him.


	9. Hell's Bells

Will groaned, waking slowly in a dark room. He was cold. So cold. He sat up slowly, feeling an odd tickling sensation on his bare chest. When he reached up to scratch at the strange itch, his fingers found liquid. Dark liquid—and lots of it.

"Elliot?" a woman called sleepily in the darkness. "Are you okay, honey? I thought I heard a crash..."

The lights flipped on and blinded Will. He tried to block his eyes with one forearm, but he gasped when he saw his entire arm was covered in blood.

Elliot's mother screamed, and Will tried to get to his feet, but he kept slipping in the puddle of blood covering the hardwood floor of Elliot's bedroom. That's when he saw the body. Elliot, the neighborhood bully, lay next to where Will had been lying on the floor. The large boy's eyes were wide with terror, and staring at nothing. His face was half beaten in, and his stomach had been ripped open—his entrails were everywhere.

Sheer panic got Will up and moving immediately. He charged an open window, diving head-first out onto the roof. He barely registered leaping off the roof and crashing into some bushes on the ground. He just ran, and ran.

He couldn't stop.

* * *

Dean slammed on the brakes when someone streaked out from between two cars into the road. "Jesus Christ," he swore to himself, his heart suddenly thumping at the scare. Then he leaned forward, squinting at the figure in front of his headlights.

Dean's jaw dropped when his brain finally registered the sight before him.

Will only paused for a brief second before taking off again at a dead run. The kid was covered with blood—from head to toe. Like he'd taken a fucking bath in it. There were cops everywhere that night, out looking for their escaped murder suspect. Dean had just driven past Will and Jo's house, and he'd seen the police staking out the place.

Dean put the Impala in park, jumping out and leaving the door open, engine running. He had to get to Will before the boy ran into the authorities.

Will had a head start on him, and the kid was fast. Jo was right, Dean had lost a step or two. Usually chasing people down had been Sam's thing. Long legs, and all that.

"Never around when I need you, Sammy," Dean growled through clenched teeth, his arms and legs pumping hard as he began picking up a head of steam—hoping his endurance would outlast the kid's.

Finally the distance stopped increasing between them, and soon Dean started cutting into it, little by little. Still, he was nearly out of gas when Will's foot sank into a soft spot, and the kid tumbled head-over-heels.

Dean tackled Will when he tried to get up and keep running. He threw the kid to the ground, using his greater mass to keep the Will down on his stomach.

"Christo," Dean growled, not entirely surprised when the boy struggling beneath him screamed at the name of the Lord.

Dean pulled off his own necklace, pressing the small devil's trap into Will's back, between his shoulder blades. He started chanting in Latin, and although he'd trapped the demon possessing Will, he had a hell of a time holding the kid down. Bare skin slicked with blood made it hard to keep a handhold, but after what seemed like an hour the exorcism kicked in, and the demon left Will's body.

If they hadn't already been on the ground, both Dean and Will would've collapsed in a heap. As it was, Dean laid down on his back next to the boy, panting and wishing he had a swimming pool of booze at his disposal. It would take at least that much alcohol to make his head stop hurting.

"Dean?" Will asked. "Was I possessed by a demon?"

Dean let his eyes fall shut and nodded. "Yes, Will. Yes, you were." Dean's eyes flew open when the boy grabbed him around the waist, hanging on for dear life. After the initial shock wore off, he let one hand slide through Will's unruly hair. "It's okay. It's okay now," he said, repeating those words over and over, trying to ignore the slimy feel of blood transferring onto his hand.

Eventually he got Will moving toward the car. The boy had regained some of his composure, and although he still appeared white as a sheet, he seemed fairly 'with it' while trudging along at Dean's side.

Dean nearly kicked himself when he realized he'd left the Impala running on the street with the door open. Fortunately no one had come along in the dead of night to discover it. The police must've been keeping their patrols to the better lit areas of town. As much sense as that made...

The two of them approached the idling car, getting in and slamming the doors shut in stereo. Dean put the car in gear, tugging at Will's elbow so he would slump down in his seat, keeping low enough that no one would see him riding in the car.

Once they'd traveled a few blocks, Dean let out a sigh of relief. It was over. He could finally go home and...what?

Dean hadn't decided yet. Or rather, he didn't _know_ yet.

"What am I going to do?" Will asked hoarsely, his red-rimmed hazel eyes staring up at Dean from where he'd slouched down in his seat, forcing his growing limbs to do an almost comical degree of folding.

Dean shook his head. "Don't worry about it. Nothing's going to happen to you or your mom," he said, his voice dropping into the same tone he'd used with Sammy when the younger Winchester brother would go on one of his 'I think I'm evil' kicks. "Not while I'm around."

Will's gaze slowly turned to the window. "Yeah?" he asked. "How long's that going to be?"

Dean sighed, but didn't answer. He couldn't—not now. He had no idea what the road ahead contained for Jo and Will. He wanted to be with them, be part of their family—but there might not be room for him. He understood all too well Will's anxiety about gaining a family member, only to lose them to death—or worse, apathy.

* * *

Jo's elation at seeing her son seemed premature, even to Dean. In his mind the clock was ticking. They needed to get out of town before dawn.

He told Jo to take Will down to the basement and make him shower. He gathered up some of his own clothes, making an outfit for the boy out of a ratty pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. The clothes hung off of Will's tall, lanky frame—but they would have to do until more clothes could be purchased.

Dean threw his duffel bag in the trunk of the Impala. Jo and Will had nothing to bring but themselves, so they got in the back seat without any preamble. Will fell asleep with his head on Jo's lap before they'd traveled ten miles down the highway.

"So, it's over?" Jo asked around the time they crossed the state boarder.

Dean glanced at her in the rearview mirror. Morning had just barely begun to turn the eastern sky grey, but he still couldn't make out her features in the dark vehicle. "I think so," he replied, returning his attention to the road.

He could hear Jo's soft sigh, imagine her letting her head fall back against the vinyl of the seat. "Then what now?" she asked, her question insistent, yet soft enough to not disturb the boy sleeping on her lap. "What're we going to do? Are we going to tell him, Dean?"

Dean shrugged. "I don't know. Can't say I haven't thought about it..." he trailed off, his brain scrambling to piece together the scenario that would follow an admission of a secret like the one he and Jo kept. When she didn't respond after several minutes, he cast another glance at the mirror. "It's up to you, Jo. You're his mother. You make the decision, and I'll live with it. I just want you to know—if you do want me in your family, I'll be there. One hundred percent."

Dean hated the silence that followed his admission, but he understood the necessity of it. Jo would have to think long and hard on her options. He'd burned her before, and Dean feared the sting would never leave the wounds he'd given her.

"Take me home, Dean," Jo said after a while, sounding choked from suppressed tears. "Please, take me to my mother. I just—I need to talk with her. I need..."

"I know," he said, giving her an out so she wouldn't feel obligated to explain. "Believe me, I know," Dean said softly, running one hand down his face, and then up through his hair.

He was surprised to find tears gathering in his eyes. He hadn't realized just how quickly he'd attached himself to the idea of staying with Jo and Will—being the protection and support they needed. Of course Jo would want to return to her family—her own blood. He'd been the same way once. No one else mattered in the long run except for Dad and Sam.

There might be more rejection and isolation in Dean's future—but he'd saved them. He'd saved them both, and that's all that mattered.


	10. Freak on a Leash

Ellen walked into the bar from the back. It was long past closing time, and for the past hour Dean had sat at the bar alone, drinking beer and trying not to think too much.

"They're asleep," Ellen commented, walking behind the counter and grabbing a mug to fill with beer at the tap. She leaned against the bar across from him with her drink, sighing and running one hand back through her hair.

Dean nodded in response to her comment, finishing off his own mug of amber liquid. "That's good," he said, grabbing his jacket off the bar stool next to him and digging a wad of cash out of a pocket. He slapped ten bucks down on the bar. "Glad they're gonna be all right," he said, getting up and turning to go.

"Dean," Ellen said, her voice hard enough to halt his progress toward the door. "You don't have to leave."

Dean turned his head to look at her over his shoulder. "Why would I stay?" he asked. "My family only brings pain to yours. Your husband died because of my father. I can't even imagine how you and Jo must've suffered through the years because of us..."

Ellen sighed, taking a drink and patting the bar with an open palm. "Come sit down and talk to me, boy. We have things to discuss, you and I."

Dean hesitated, and then reluctantly obeyed. He sat down, watching as Ellen refilled his beer and slid it to him, pushing his money back along with it. He didn't reach for either the drink or the cash.

"Now listen," Ellen began, leaning toward him on her elbows. "I know I've been hard on you Winchester boys in the past, but that doesn't mean I was right. Sometimes I can't help but be angry with John for what happened to Bill, but considering they're both dead now, there ain't much use in reminiscing over things that can't be changed. Besides, as foggy as the details have remained through the years due to Jo's frustratingly tight lips, I suspect that our families aren't as distinctly separate as they once were. Do you agree, Dean?" she asked, eyeing him grimly while taking a drink.

Dean crossed his arms over his chest and cleared his throat, wishing he could find something to look at that wasn't Ellen's face. She was intelligent, and sometimes in the past he'd found himself a little afraid of what she—or some friend of hers—could do to him. "She never told me for sure one way or another," he replied, trying to be careful with his words. "But I have a feeling you could possibly be right."

Ellen nodded. "So," she began, arching one eyebrow at him. "What are your intentions regarding my daughter and grandson, Dean Winchester?"

Dean lowered his gaze to the bar, unsure of what to say. His whole world had been dark for a long time, and he didn't know how to make things right. "I'm a good soldier," he confessed. "Not so good at being a brother, or a son—but I can take orders, and I can fight, and lie, and cheat, and steal. And I'm not afraid to die," he said, finally finding the strength to look her in the eye. "About the only thing I am afraid of is not having anyone to die for," he confessed softly, his tone bearing the despair plaguing him.

Ellen's eyes narrowed in contemplation, letting her chin come to rest on one fist. "Well, I could do without the talk about dying—and the lying, hustling, and credit fraud... But, I'm pretty sure I can work with the taking orders part. Just as long as you aren't too picky about whom you're taking orders _from_."

Dean couldn't help letting a grim smirk shape his features for just a second. "Yes, ma'am," he replied, giving her a mock-salute.

Ellen returned the small smile, straightening up and taking her mug with her. "Drink your beer, Dean. Then go to bed. That's an order." With that she turned, leaving him alone to think over the things she'd said to him.

* * *

Dean walked into the room he used to share with Sam when they'd stop at the Roadhouse. Though it was located in virtually the same spot, it was a hell of a lot nicer than the original room they'd stayed in before the bar was rebuilt. 

He quickly shed his clothes, down to his undershirt and boxers, groaning softly as he collapsed on the bed nearest the door.

Jo sat up in the bed Sam usually took, looking around with sleep-filled eyes. "Dean?" she whispered, looking over at him.

"Shit, is this your room now?" he whispered back, preparing to get up and collect his clothes.

"No, no, it's fine," she said. "Will's in my room. I usually bunk with him, but I swear he's grown six inches since the last time we came here. We definitely don't fit in the same bed anymore."

Dean did some mental math, calculating Will's approximate age. "Growth spurt, huh? That sounds about right for a...boy his age." He wanted to smack himself. He'd almost said ' Winchester' in reference to Will. As much as he wanted to take on some form of responsibility in Will's life, the boy's surname was still Harvelle—and for good reason.

In spite of his lapse, he could hear Jo chuckling. "I keep forgetting," she said. "I forget that you probably know the puberty milestones and the inner workings of his mind better than I do. It's been hard for me, not knowing what to expect raising a son. You're practically an expert, and it's nice—to be able to talk with someone who can translate the awkwardness for me," she said, smiling sadly to herself.

Dean slowly sat up, turning to sit cross-legged on his bed, facing her and picking at the fraying hem on his shorts. "I know it doesn't mean much now, but I'm sorry for throwing you out that day, Jo. I regretted it—a lot."

She shook her head, still smiling a little. "Don't worry about it. I think back on the relationship we had then, and sometimes it just makes me squirm. I mean, seriously, do you remember the first time we met? Or the second? Or that hunt I tagged along on? I had such a huge thing for you, and it was like you had jail-bait radar or something, because within five seconds of meeting me I think you could tell I was just a kid, and I was trying to grow up too fast. I remember the things I used to say to you, and I just want to go back in time and slap myself for being so naïve," she admitted, rubbing at her eyes with one hand and laughing nervously while she blushed a deep red.

Dean's brow furrowed a little as he tried to process her hasty admission. "You think that's why I turned you and Will away?" he asked. "Because I thought you were too young for me?"

Jo shook her head. "No. I don't know. Maybe? I mean—I was closer to Sam in age, and closer to a high school senior in maturity. I actually wasn't surprised when you freaked out in the hospital that day," she explained. "I knew you'd been through a lot, and I didn't want to spring Will on you then—right after you'd gone through so much trauma, and pain. I was just scared I wouldn't be able to find you again for years, and I thought maybe if you knew—you'd come around to the idea of it after a while."

Dean sighed, scrubbing at his short hair with his fingertips. "Yeah, well, I guess you could say I'm sort of coming around to the idea of it now. I'm just kind of afraid it might be too late," he said, wondering if he'd ever have the guts to set her straight on all things she'd gotten wrong about him.

Jo actually thought he'd been trying to protect her—because he was more mature than she'd been. She had no idea that he'd just been too jaded to mess around with her. Plus, he hadn't wanted to piss off her mother and lose the Roadhouse as a source for research. Back then, he probably could've dealt with stringing Jo along in a farce of a relationship without feeling too guilty about it. He just hadn't, and once he started looking at her as off-limits, eventually he started to see her as something of a sidekick. The pain-in-the-ass little sister he would've had if Sam had been born a girl—except she had a burning desire to hunt for a living...

Jo had certainly gotten on his nerves, but he'd still liked her even when she was a spit-fire little squirt.

Things had changed since then, though. He'd grown even more jaded, and so had she.

Jo rose from her bed, padding over to sit down beside him on his bed, drawing her legs up and under her. "Whatever happens, I just want to thank you," she said, holding out her hand for him to shake. "Thank you so much for saving my son. You have no idea what it means to me."

Dean eyed her for a moment before reaching out to shake her hand. "You're welcome," he told her.

Jo smiled, moving to go back to her own bed when he caught her arm, squeezing gently. "Stay with me?" he asked. "I promise I'll keep my hands to myself—it's just, it's been a while since I had any human contact. I—I don't sleep too good anymore. Unless I'm, you know, smashed." He smirked guiltily.

She nodded, and after some awkward repositioning, they settled in, both laying on their backs, looking at the ceiling. They laid like that for a long moment, barely touching. Then they both started laughing.

"I don't know if this is going to work," Jo giggled, trying to move over to give him more room.

Dean mock-cleared his throat, trying to find a place to let his left arm come to rest, and finding none until Jo grabbed his wrist and pulled his arm behind her head, using it as a pillow.

She chuckled, smiling mischievously. "I forgot how big a guy you are," she said. "No offense, but you always looked kinda...short...next to Sam." She tried to stifle further laughing, but couldn't.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, like I haven't heard that one before," he said.

Jo smacked herself on the forehead, groaning in embarrassment. "Yeah. That was one of those naïve things I should've kept to myself, wasn't it?" she asked, blushing again.

Dean smiled evilly. "It doesn't just scare me when your mom gets angry. Sometimes, it turns me on," he confessed.

Jo's mouth dropped open, but her eyes continued to sparkle with amusement. "You jerk!" she accused, play-smacking his side.

Dean took on an accosted look, his eyes going wide. "What? Wasn't I supposed to say that?" he asked, grinning when she grabbed the pillow and pretended to smother him with it.

"You're terrible," she laughed, shrieking when he grabbed her waist, pulling her across his body, and overestimating the amount of room he had to work with for their little wrestling match. They tumbled off the bed, and the hard landing cut off their laughter momentarily.

For a long second they were completely silent, tangled up in the sheets and each other.

"Holy shit. Do you think anyone heard that?" Dean asked, starting to chuckle when Jo burst out laughing at his comment.

She tried to muffle her laughter against his shoulder, gasping when the door to their room began to creak open.

"Do you think you could at least try to keep it down? Your son is sleeping down the hall," Ellen whispered harshly from the doorway.

A short burst of laughter escaped Jo before she could collect herself, forcing her face to straighten. Dean found himself immensely fascinated by the pattern on the bedspread that had fallen to the floor with them when they fell.

"Yes, ma'am," Jo replied obediently, and a moment later the door swung shut once again.

"_Awkward_," Dean deadpanned after they heard Ellen's footsteps fade away down the hall.

Jo sighed, but she didn't disagree. She did start to smile again after a moment, and then broke into muffled laughter. "I'm—I'm sorry," she managed. "I'm not usually such a basket case, but it's such a relief..."

She got cut off when he kissed her. It was a sweet kiss. Almost hesitant, until she committed to kissing him back. Then he laced his fingers through her soft hair, and their chaste lip-lock turned warm, and passionate.

Dean hadn't felt passionate about anything for a long time. He'd started to think he might never feel good about anything ever again.

Fifteen years ago he never would've guessed it might work between him and Jo. He still didn't know if it could work, but he did know one thing—he wouldn't have to lie to her. He wouldn't feel like a freak with a huge secret he had to keep hidden.

Jo knew everything, and maybe they could manage to not drive each other crazy.

Him, Will, Jo, and Ellen. They were all freaks. Maybe if they tried hard enough, they could be a family.

After all, freaks should stick together.

* * *

AN: Thank you so much to the people who're still reading this, especially the ones who review every chapter. The feedback means so much to me, and I'm sorry I don't get chapters of this posted as quickly as I should. The story isn't quite over, so I hope everyone sticks with me here. I'm kind of getting back into my writing mode, so hopefully the next chapter will be up within the week.

Thanks again!

_Dean: "Hey, look at this one. I'll bet this one could really hump the crap out of your leg. Huh? Huh?"_

_Sam: Shoots Dean a death glare._

_Dean: "What? It totally could. Look at it."_

_-Conversation about Black Dogs in Season 2_


	11. She Shook Me

AN: It's back! It's back! The show, not my story. Well, my story's back too, but that's fairly mundane in comparison. I was so starved for watching new eps with Dean and Sam I probably would've loved the kickoff of season three no matter what, but the second they came on with Hell's Bells for the intro I was bouncing two feet in front of the TV.

The jury's still out on the Ruby character, with her little 'I'm the girl who just saved your ass' to Sam, but I would've loved it if that Tamara character would've become one of the regulars. She looked like a hunter--plus she was a little more grown up, less blonde, less stupid attitude...and I digress.

Conclusion on season 3 so far: Dean's a hott slut, Sam's hott when he pouts, and Bobby's hilarious. Can't wait for next week!!

* * *

Dean sighed contentedly, turning over and draping himself across Jo's warm back, wrapping an arm around her waist. It was barely morning. The first hints of grey had only just begun to light the window. He guessed they'd only slept for a couple hours. 

"Mm," she groaned, smiling and pulling his arm tighter around her. "Never pinned you for the cuddling type."

Dean smirked. "You complaining?" he asked, nipping at her ear.

Jo startled chuckling, turning onto her back and pulling him down for a kiss, running her fingers through the short hair at the base of his skull.

She smiled when he pulled away, studying him through half-closed eyes. "Wow. Forty, and still hot as hell. No pun intended."

Dean swatted her hip through the sheets. "You're naughty," he informed her. "Taking advantage of me like you did last night. I should've known you only wanted me for my looks."

She smiled again, but it was far more reserved this time—yet still happy. She stroked his forehead, letting her fingertips trace along his hairline. "Good to see you've still got that sense of humor. I was afraid you'd lost it over the years. I know it must've just about killed you when..."

Dean stopped her from speaking by placing a finger on her lips. "That's behind us," he whispered, having sobered. He could tell that dead look had returned to his eyes, but he couldn't help it. "I wanna be with you, and Will."

Jo wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him close so their foreheads touched. "I'd like that too, Dean. Just as long as you're not going all Jerry Maguire on me."

"Jerry Maguire?" he repeated, kissing her lips briefly and then smirking, the dead look fading from his eyes, replaced once again by a mischievous spark. "Mm. I'm totally down with Jerry Maguire. Show me the money, baby," he said, eliciting a pleasant sound from her when he kissed her again.

* * *

It was still early when he left her an hour or two later. Jo slept on, buried under the covers, and she didn't stir when he slipped out of bed. He'd pulled on his boxers and jeans, wandering out to find the bathroom down the hall.

It'd been a weird few days, and his mind was both exhausted and buzzing with thought. Dean only knew one cure for the times when his brain started running away with him.

Food.

Dean headed for the kitchen, hoping he'd still remember where Ellen kept the good snacks hidden. He found Sam sitting at the bar, drinking a beer in spite of the early hour.

Dean went about his business, humming 'Don't Fear the Reaper' by Blue Oyster Cult. He poured a bowl of cereal, deciding to eat it dry upon discovering there was no milk in the mini-fridge behind the bar. He briefly considered pouring beer on his Fruit Loops, but instead stored the idea away for future contemplation.

For several long minutes they sat at opposite ends of the bar, Dean's munching seemingly echoing in the otherwise silent bar.

"So, about you and Jo hooking up..." Sam alleged, his eyes shifting toward his older brother's form. "Was it good?"

Dean's crunching abruptly ceased, and his spoon clattered against the bowl when his whole body went stock-still, his eyes wide and staring straight ahead.

Sam didn't seem to notice his brother's sudden lack of animation. He took another casual swig of beer, then sighed mightily. "I guess it is about time you made an honest woman out of her. You going to get married? Settle down?"

"Are you a demon?" Dean asked, one cheek still fat with Fruit Loops. He'd finally turned his head just enough to look down the bar at Sam, unknowingly doing an excellent imitation of a young child questioning the existence of Santa Clause over breakfast on Christmas morning.

Sam pondered the inquiry for a long moment, taking on a very thoughtful expression before shaking his head. "No. I don't think so," he said, and then drank some more beer.

Dean swallowed the cereal, feeling the uncomfortable lump travel down his esophagus. All of a sudden he wasn't very hungry. Just freaked the hell out. Sam hadn't spoken to him since...

It'd been a long time. A long fucking time, and considering all the things that'd happened, the trail of disasters that had followed in their wake wherever they went, he couldn't imagine the sudden change was a good sign.

He shot a quick glance at Sam's tall form, finding his little brother looking perfectly relaxed—as completely unaware of the tension that had Dean's whole body humming with fear.

It was like someone had flipped a switch, and all of his instincts had kicked into overdrive. There was something wrong. Something seriously wrong. For the life of him, he couldn't remember the Roadhouse ever being so quiet.

"What do you want from me, Sammy?" Dean finally asked, his voice breaking roughly over the words.

One corner of Sam's mouth quirked up, and Dean's heart started hammering so hard he thought for sure it would burst out of his chest.

Sam set down his beer after draining it, his smooth features a peaceful mask. "It took you this long to ask me what you've known your entire life, Dean?"

Their gazes caught, and Dean couldn't look away, couldn't stop the tremors in his hands.

Sam's dark hazel eyes bored straight into his soul—seeing him, judging him, finding him lacking—until a woman's death scream ripped through the air, jerking Dean back to reality.

Dean knocked over the bar stool in his haste to get moving. He had to stop the horror he knew in his bones was taking place.

He never should've left her. Should've known better than to think something so good could come to him so easily. They were all going to die, and it was his fault. _His _fault

Sam remained seated at the bar—looking thoughtful while nursing his beer.

* * *

_Fat and stupid is no way to go through life, son._

_-Bobby quotting Animal House!!! I almost died when he said that line!_

_Thanks so much to everyone who's sticking with this story. You guys are the best, and I'm such a loser for not replying to your extremely thoughtful comments._


	12. Back in Black

AN: I'm a little disturbed that Sam seems to actually have more funny moments than Dean this season. Can't wait for the Fairy Tales Ep!!! Yea!! Oh, and a huge thanks to everyone who's reviewed and stuck with this story. It's not quite the end, but it's getting there. Only another chapter or two before the epilogue, I think.

* * *

Dean should've been used to arriving too late. Should've stopped expecting himself to get there in time to save the people he loved. No matter what he did, no matter how he tried...they all left him in the end. 

Will appeared dazed—completely out of it, except for the utter horror in his eyes as he stood over his mother's body, looking down on her.

Jo lay exactly where Dean had left her. Her eyes were wide with shock. Death had taken her so quickly, she hadn't had time to shed the tears that had gathered in her eyes. One sparkling drop fell from each eye, running slowly down her pale cheeks before disappearing into her hair.

Sam's knife was buried to the hilt in her chest.

She looked so beautiful, and so broken.

There was blood everywhere.

"Mom?" Will whispered, stifling a sob. His shaking fingers prodded Jo's shoulder gently. "Mom, please," he pleaded—very much a lost little boy.

Dean saw it in Will's eyes when the boy realized his mother would never wake up again, because he'd murdered her.

"Mama," Will sobbed, tears running down his own face. "Mama, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to! Please, wake up. You have to wake up!" he shouted, pleading, shaking her corpse, begging her to come back to life, to forgive him.

Will sank to his knees, sobbing into the covers next to Jo's arm.

Dean stood frozen, his lips slightly parted, unable to process the scene before him.

Jo had taken him in, and made him feel needed, and wanted. Dean knew damn well he'd never find another person willing to take a chance on him—as damaged as he'd become over the years.

Dean never had a mother. Now he didn't have a father, a brother, a lover, or a son.

No wonder he'd never feared hell...he was already there.

"You have to stop me."

Dean's attention refocused on Will, realizing the boy had spoken, strung together a broken sentence directed toward him.

The tear streaks remained on the boy's tan cheeks, making the kid look ridiculous under that mop of hair.

"Please, Dean. You have to stop me," Will whispered, his soft tone carrying across the eerie silence.

Dean eyed Will, trying to keep his attention off the body, trying not to think about how hard this was going to hit him later, when he found himself alone in some motel room. He tried in vein to make himself believe none of it mattered. There was still plenty of alcohol in the world. If the pain became too much to bear, he would just make it go away the same way he always did.

One way or another, he'd make it go away.

No more suffering for Dean.

No more being alone.

"We have to go, Will," Dean said, his voice rough. "We can't stay here."

Will shook his head. "No, you have to make me stop. Can't you see what I've become! I'm a monster!" Will shouted, getting to his feet. "Make me stop!" he sobbed, bravely trying to keep his eyes from straying to his mother's body.

Dean couldn't take that step. He couldn't force himself to walk over to Will and grab the kid by the arm, drag him out of there.

Will stumbled closer, his usual grace turned awkward by an overload of grief. The boy's dark hazel eyes were bright with oncoming insanity. He didn't make it all the way to where Dean was standing before he had to stop, gripping the edge of a small sewing table to support his weight so he wouldn't collapse to the floor.

"I can't do this, Dean! You have to help me, you have to make it stop!" he pleaded, his breathing turning ragged. The kid was hyperventilating, going into shock.

Then, his breathing stopped, and Will hit the floor like a sack of potatoes.

The sick sound of the impact snapped Dean out of his stupor, and he rushed forward to Will's side, kneeling down beside him.

"Hey, kid, wake up," he prodded, pulling Will's head onto his knees and gently slapping the boy's face. Will still had a pulse, but he'd stopped breathing.

"Will! Wake up!" Dean commanded, moving around the young man's body after gently lowering his head to the floor. He began chest compressions, doing five and then pausing, waiting to see if something happened.

It'd been so long since John had drilled him on First Aid, Dean didn't know if he still remembered how to do CPR.

Will's eyes flew open, and he took in a huge gasp of air. "No!" he screamed, fighting against Dean's attempt to keep him restrained and calm. The kid didn't have the leverage or the training to throw off a full-grown hunter, but he fought fiercely all the same. There was no seeing in Will's eyes. It was like he was completely lost to the world.

"No! Don't touch her!" the boy yelled. "No, please! I'll do anything. Just leave her alone! Leave Jo alone!" Will yelled at some unseen force, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I'll do anything. Don't make me hurt her! She'll never forgive me! No!"

Dean's insides turned cold when he realized what Will must be seeing. Or rather, whose memories he must be seeing.

Will's eyes rolled back in his head, and his body began to seize. Dean turned him onto his side, and tried to keep his flailing limbs from hitting anything, powerless to help him.

"You tried to save him from this," Sam said.

Dean whipped his head around, but couldn't see his brother anywhere. When he turned his attention back to Will, the boy had gone still. His eyes were barely cracked open, and he was gasping for breath.

"She showed me everything," Will whispered. "Everything—from the night I was conceived, until now." The boy's dead eyes shifted so he could see Dean's face. "Mom lied to me. _You all_ lied." The accusation was soft, but effective.

Dean's eyes fell shut, and he grit his teeth. "Let him go," he growled, forcing his voice to be as low and menacing as he could make it.

Will blinked, and his eyes turned black in just that quick second. The boy smiled gently, reaching up to touch Dean's cheek.

Dean's eyes flew open.

"He hates you now," the demon informed him, making Will's young face twist into an evil smirk. "Oh, how he hates you, and Sam, and even his dearly departed mother and grandmother in a much smaller capacity. But most of all—he hates himself. All I have to do is push a little more, and he'll drive that knife deep into himself. Just you wait."

Dean drew back in disgust from Will's side, getting quickly to his feet. "Your fight is with me! You let him go!"

Will laughed, pushing himself up to a sitting position. "Oh, Dean. You kill me. Don't you get it? I'm bound to him. I've been with him so long, I'm a part of him now. He'd die without me."

Dean's features hardened with cold rage. "Not if I have anything to say about it. I'll get you out of him if I have to bless a crowbar and shove it down his throat! You're not taking one more person from me!"

Will only laughed harder, until tears ran down his cheeks. "Really, Dean? A blessed crowbar? Please. Even if you do try another exorcism with the chanting, and the holy water, and the screaming, and the black smoke—how are you going to know I'm gone? Smoke and fireworks aren't too hard to fake. In the meantime, you'll run around—saving people, hunting things. You know, the family business! Only this time, you'll have Will playing the Robin to your Batman, instead of dear Sammy. And you'll always have to watch him, wondering if your little sidekick's gonna gut you in your sleep," the demon chuckled, wiping at Will's moist eyes.

Dean lowered his head, looking at the floor and scrambling to think of a way out of this. Some piece of stray information about long-term possession. Some ritual, or incantation. "Sammy, please," Dean whispered under his breath, a tear leaking from one eye when he squeezed them shut. "I need you now. Please, help me."

"Want to know a secret about Sam?" Will whispered, his mouth suddenly only an inch or two from Dean's ear.

Dean jerked away from the boy's voice, startled that the kid had gotten to his feet and approached so quickly, so silently. He tried to back away, but Will grabbed his bicep and squeezed hard.

"He knew," Will said, his eyes flashing black. "Sammy knew the knife you kept under your pillow—was for him. In case _he_ tried to gut you in the middle of the night."

Dean suddenly flew backward, crashing hard into the wall. He stuck there, just like he had so many years ago in that cabin, when John had been possessed by the Yellow-Eyed Demon. He screamed when the scar on his chest reopened, spilling blood down his torso.

"Sam! Sammy!" he yelled, wiggling frantically, but unable to free himself. "Sam, don't you let me die!" he shouted hoarsely, smelling the sick copper of his own blood.

The demon in Will smiled. "Trust me, Dean. No one can help you now."

With that, Will turned, walking over to his mother's body. He stroked her forehead gently, brushing her bangs away from her glassy eyes.

"She's beautiful, isn't she?" the demon said. "She's beautiful, and for one night, she was yours. Hope it was good enough to last a lifetime of loneliness, Dean, because that's what I see in your future. Grief, loneliness. Thanks to you, your father didn't live long enough to drink himself to death. Think you could put him to shame in that category?"

Dean was fast losing the ability to breathe. The pressure on his chest was too great for his lungs to overcome, and the growing tightness in his throat didn't help. His body fought hard to gulp air, even though on the inside, he welcomed death.

Will's slender fingers wrapped around the bloody hilt of the knife, and with a hard tug, it slid free of Jo's body.

The demon smiled, eyes flashing black once again. He saluted Dean with the blood-soaked blade. "Nice seeing you again, Winchester," he said.

Dean's eyes widened when Will turned the knife on himself, using both hands to pull it deep into his diaphragm.

Will sank to his knees in the same moment Dean fell from the wall. He looked up just in time to see black smoke begin to pour out of the boy from his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. It even escaped him from around the wound he'd inflicted upon himself.

Once the demon had gone, Will slumped gracelessly to the floor.

Dean began crawling toward the boy, one arm pressed tight to his own wound.

"No, not him," Dean sobbed. "Not again." He pulled Will into his arms, sitting on the floor with the large boy half in his lap.

Will's fingers wrapped around Dean's wrist, and he squeezed weakly. The color had completely drained from the boy's face, and an icy sweat had broken out all over his body. "Dean?" he rasped.

Dean ran his fingers through the kid's mop of brown hair, his other arm supporting Will's shoulders. "Right here, kiddo. I'm right here."

Tears ran freely from Will's hazel eyes, and in that moment he looked so much like Sam it hurt.

"Dean, I..." Will coughed weakly, and then coughed again. Flecks of blood from his lungs wet his lips and turned his teeth bright orange. "Don't wanna...die," he choked, trying so hard to be brave, to not cry.

Dean hugged the kid tight. "I know," he said softly. "I know. You're gonna be fine. You hear me? I've seen a lot of stab wounds, Will, and it's not that bad. I've been knifed way worse than that, and I was fine. You're gonna be okay."

"Promise?" Will panted.

Dean nodded, swiping back the kid's hair and then cupping the side of his face to support the kid's head as he grew weaker. "I promise," he lied.

Will sniffed, and then started panting again. Blood had completely coated his tongue. Flecks had started to blow out of his nose and mouth with each breath. "Is there a heaven, Dean?" he asked, his eyes drooping.

"Yeah," Dean assured him. "I'm sure there is. Your grandmother—my mother—I think she was an angel. A fallen angel, maybe, but still an angel."

Will tried to smile a little. "Do you think that's where my mom is? With the angels?" he asked.

Dean squeezed him, wondering if Will could feel the comforting gesture. "I'm sure of it, kid. Your mom—she was a good person. She loved you. A lot. Don't ever forget that."

Will gave a weak nod in response.

For several long minutes they sat in relative silence. Each breath that whistled out of Will's lungs tightened the vice that had clamped down on Dean's insides. Red foam had formed at the corners of Will's mouth, bubbling out as he sank deeper into shock, his eyes slowly glassing over.

The kid attempted to whisper something, and instead began to choke and cough as his airway attempted to clear itself. Dean turned him on his side, so the blood would run out of his mouth, instead of collecting at the back of his throat.

"There's something...something gone inside me," Will wheezed between coughing fits. "I don't think I can hang on...much longer."

A shudder went down Dean's spine, and his jaw tightened. He just kept on stroking Will's hair, trying to keep calm for the sake of the child dying in his arms.

"That's okay," he said, his voice low, and too rough. "It's okay, Will. Just relax. Everything's going to be fine."

A sob racked Will's body, and a string of blood and saliva began to stretch toward the floor from his lower lip. "Will I see mom?" he asked pathetically.

It wasn't too hard to follow Will's line of thinking. Dean stared off at the wall. He had no idea if Will would be held accountable for the murders a demon had performed using his body. He didn't know if Will would go to heaven, or hell.

"It's okay, kid," Dean repeated, holding Will steady with one arm while his other reached for the duffle sitting on the floor a few feet away. He pulled it closer by the strap, then dug inside, pulling out the med kit. "Just close your eyes. You'll see your mom soon." Dean opened the case one-handed, digging around until he found a syringe. He awkwardly prepped the injection, and released the liquid into one of Will's veins.

The morphine did its work well. Soon a tiny smile crept onto the boy's lips as he faded into pleasant unconsciousness.

A few minutes later, Will choked to death on his own blood.

Dean held the cooling body close, and wished death would take him too.

* * *

_Sam: I lost my shoe._

_-Raise your hand if you wanted to kidnap Sam and take him home after he said that line:-D_


	13. Unfinished Business

"You know, if you'd called the paramedics, they might've been able to save him," Sam pointed out.

Dean's whole body felt stiff. He'd sat on the floor for so long it'd gotten dark outside. His rust-covered fingers unconsciously stroked through Will's hair, and he stared blankly at nothing, hardly aware of his brother's presence in the room.

"Dean?" Sam snapped his fingers in front of his older brother's face. "You still with me?"

"Bring him back," Dean whispered faintly. His green eyes finally found Sam, and focused on him. "I thought it was better this way, but it's not. Bring him back."

Sam shoved his hands into his coat pockets, shaking his head. "You know I can't, Dean. Even if I could...look around you. Look at the people Meg made him kill. He never would've escaped what happened here. If he'd survived, he would've spent the rest of his life on the run, or in jail. You might've been right. Maybe it was more merciful to just let him die here, with his family."

An angry tear escaped Dean's eye as his features turned from lax to stony. He clenched his jaw, and started to grind his teeth. "I was his family! I was supposed to protect him! I was supposed to..." he trailed off, suddenly too choked to speak any more.

"Die for him?" Sam asked, gazing down as he towered overhead.

Dean nodded, shedding more tears when he blinked hard.

Sam sighed, crouching down and then taking a seat next to his brother. "It was just too late. The demon possessed him at an early age, and bonded too tightly to exorcise."

Dean didn't respond. It was his fault. He came back too late. Years too late.

All his fault.

"Did you do this when it was me?" Sam asked after a long pause. "When I...died?"

Dean shrugged one shoulder, obviously angry, and ready to lash out. "Are you going to fix this, or not?" he asked, as if that were all Sam was to him. Some higher authority keeping him from what he wanted.

Sam blew out a breath, scratching at the back of his neck. "I can't. Not the way you want me to, dude."

"Then what good are you?" Dean demanded, his anger putting tremendous force behind the words. "Why're you even still here?"

"You know why," Sam replied softly, and if Dean had cared enough to hear it, he would've detected a hint of hurt behind his little brother's words.

Dean shook his head. "No, I don't. I don't fucking need you around baby-sitting me, Sam. I'm fine."

Sam snorted at that. "You're _fine_? Have we met? Self-destructive is your middle name, Dean. Do you have any idea how tired I am? How much I want to rest? I can't. Whether you know it or not, you've been keeping me here. You couldn't let me go. You couldn't accept that my death _wasn't your fault_, and I didn't blame you for it. I didn't blame you for the life I led, or what happened to dad, or anything else."

Dean couldn't think of anything to say to that. Maybe because there was nothing left to say. Nothing mattered anymore.

Ever since he was four years old, Dean had carried with him a terrible fear that he would have to watch every single person he cared about die—just like their mother had died—and he wouldn't be able to do a damn thing to stop it.

"You're not just some ghost haunting me, are you?" Dean asked dully, innately knowing the answer.

Sam shrugged. "I guess not. I'm not really sure what I've become—but I know you were my unfinished business."

Dean nodded, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Yeah, about that..."

Sam smiled a little. One corner of his mouth ticked up. "Last night, when you were with Jo...you were finally ready. Ready to let go. It took you long enough," he teased gently.

Dean wiped at his eyes furiously, trying to rid himself of the tears plaguing him. "Yeah," he agreed. "Maybe I was."

Dean immediately missed the weight of Will's body. He dropped his hand from his face, finding himself in a dark nothingness, with Sam by his side. He turned his head to look at his brother after searching himself for injuries, and finding none. "What're you doing?" he asked, a little panicky.

Sam smiled sadly and shrugged. "Fixing things," he replied. "And before you ask—yes, Dean, it was real. All of it was real."


	14. New Life

Dean suddenly came to. Like waking up—except, he was already awake.

And in a hospital.

And sitting up.

And in a shit load of pain.

And holding a baby in his arms.

Will snuffled in his sleep, but didn't wake. He was so little, and beautiful, and alive.

Dean couldn't stop himself from smiling wide while looking down at his tiny nephew. "Shit, Sam. You did good making this kid," he whispered appreciatively, carefully stroking one chubby cheek with the tip of his index finger.

Jo walked back into the room, just like she had all those years ago. She appeared apprehensive—as though wondering how Dean would react to the news that his very recently deceased little brother had fathered a child while possessed.

Lucky for her, this time around Dean was already comfortable with the idea.

"I know you've been through a lot," Jo began, apparently encouraged by his smile.

"Over my dead body," Dean said immediately.

A perplexed look crossed her features. "Excuse me?" she said, raising one eyebrow at him.

Dean grinned even bigger, if that were possible. "You can't have him back. Not over my dead body. Finders keepers." To prove his point, Dean turned away from her as much as his busted-up ribs would allow, pretending to shield Will from her view. "My precious," he teased, his eyes glinting wickedly at her over his shoulder.

Jo put on a fuzzy, confused smile, but seemed pleased by his odd reaction. "Are you okay?" she asked, genuinely concerned.

She'd seen an awful lot of broody-Dean over the years. It was no wonder she figured he'd finally gone on a long vacation to crazy town.

Dean settled back against his pillows, still smiling serenely, in spite of the pain. "Sit down," he invited, patting the space next to him on the edge of the bed.

Jo complied—although he noticed she didn't willingly get too close to him. He wasn't sure if that was because she didn't want to seem too forward, didn't want to aggravate his injuries, or was suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder after her ordeal with Sam.

"Listen," Dean started, unable to conceal how insanely happy he was, even for a moment. "I know you're perfectly capable of raising him yourself. I know I haven't always been respectable, or responsible, or any other 'r' term you'd like to use to describe a father figure. But, I do know that this kid is a part of you, and a part of Sam. I—I want to be in his life, Jo. I want to be a big part of his life. I want him to play soccer, and go to school, and go to college—just like Sam would've wanted for him," he said, finally cutting himself off.

Jo stared at him, a little stunned. "Yeah," she finally said, nodding a little. "Yeah, I guess I kind of was hoping to give him some stability..."

Dean nodded, smiling down at Will's tiny sleeping form. "Lots of stability," he agreed, arranging Will's blanket so it would cover him better. "No growing up in the backseat of an Impala for you, kiddo. It's gonna be all sports, and books, and girls."

Jo shot him a dull look. "Girls?" she repeated.

Dean's smile turned sheepish. "Sports, books, and shotguns?" he amended.

Jo mulled it over, and then leaned over to let her head rest on his shoulder. "Yeah, I think I can live with that," she said.

Dean turned so he could kiss her forehead, and then let his cheek rest on the top of her head. Together they watched Will sleep until visiting hours were over. Then Jo had to leave, promising she'd be back the next day to pick Dean up when he got discharged from the hospital.


	15. Sammy

Dean sighed, letting the door of the Impala creak shut after he grabbed his shades and cell phone. It'd been a long day at the garage, and he was unreasonably thrilled to be home for the weekend.

He'd work on restoring that classic Chevelle he'd gotten cheap at an auction up near Detroit, he'd get to watch some football, and if he was lucky, he might even get laid.

A child's delighted scream drew his attention to the neighbor's yard, and Dean smiled at what he saw. A few of the kids from around the neighborhood had gathered together in their swimming suits to run through a sprinkler. They laughed, and splashed each other. It was the sort of thing Dean and Sam had rarely done as children.

Dean grinned a little wider when he spotted a buzz-haired four-year-old with hazel eyes splashing a girl two years older than him. The kid was handsome, even at such a young age, and he was already very popular with the ladies. Three different girls vied for his attention, and while he remained friendly, he played very hard-to-get.

"That's my boy," Dean whispered appreciatively, leaning with one arm on the hood of the Impala.

"He's had them eating out of the palm of his hand all day," a soft male voice commented from just behind where Dean stood.

Dean glanced at Will over his shoulder, shooting the lanky fifteen-year-old a dirty smile. "We've taught him well, padwan. Just, don't tell your mother. I don't think she could handle another ladies man in the house. We'll let her think he's cute and innocent for a few more years."

Will smiled, and rolled his eyes under shaggy hair, play-punching Dean in the shoulder. "Yeah, like you're such a player, dad. You're an old man."

Dean straightened up, turning to face the boy. "Oh, I'm old, huh?" he said, taking a playful swipe at Will's head. The kid blocked, just like Dean had taught him. That didn't stop Dean from grabbing his t-shirt, and pulling him down, rough-housing with him.

They both laughed as they struggled, and Dean used the play-fight as an excuse to pull his adoptive son into a hug, slapping him on the back a couple times before releasing him.

Dean motioned toward the throng of kids across the street. "Go grab your brother and we'll pop in a movie for him. I got that fuel filter today, and if we hurry I'll bet we can get it in before dinner tonight."

Will grinned. "Sweet," he said, then looked both ways before jogging across the street. "Hey, Sammy!" he called, and the blonde boy immediately came to attention at the sound of his name.

Sammy grinned big, running over to meet his giant of an older brother. He jumped so Will had to catch him, and hugged him tight around the neck while grinning. Then the little boy caught sight of the Impala, and wiggled to be put down, running to meet his father.

Dean glanced up and down the street for traffic before walking out to meet his son half-way. He scooped the boy up, playfully swatting him on the butt.

"What've I told you about looking before crossing the street, huh?" Dean asked, blowing a raspberry on Sammy's cheek before kissing him on the same spot.

Sammy giggled. "Sorry, daddy."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that sounded sincere. Come on, let's get you dried off, kiddo."

The three Winchester men made their way up to the house.

In the garage, they sat Sammy down in front of a small TV, putting in a movie for him to watch while Dean and Will popped the hood on Will's future car—a classic Chevy Chevelle—and installed the fuel filter.

Dean sighed with contentment as he watched Will finishing the installation.

"Yeah, you definitely got your mechanical know-how from me," Dean said.

A half-grin shaped Will's features as he split his attention between the task at hand and his step-dad. "Oh yeah?"

"Definitely. Sam—your father—couldn't fix a car to save his life. He could lock and load with the best of them, but let me tell you," Dean said, smiling fondly at the memory, "tools were his kryptonite."

Will was leaned both forearms against the edge of the car, wrench forgotten in his hand. "You really miss him, don't you?" he said to Dean after a long moment of thought.

Dean shrugged, about to put off the sentiment with a slick one-liner—but instead he paused, taking a long look at Will. He could see Sam in the boy's features. Even the timber of Will's voice was beginning to remind him of his long deceased brother.

"I raised him," Dean said simply. "I didn't know it at the time, but I did. I raised him like I raised you, and like I'm trying to raise your little brother. For the first twenty-seven years of my life, he came first. Protecting him, being there for him, everything. I think I had more paternal attachment to him than our father did. And somehow, he almost turned out normal. It about killed me when I lost him."

And when I lost you... Dean added mentally. Over the years his memories of that alternate reality had faded. Will's death seemed like a bad dream he'd had so long ago. At times, Dean wondered if any of it had ever happened at all.

Will's face remained stoic. "I have a lot to live up to, don't I?" he asked, sounding unsure—as he often did when they discussed Sam.

Dean shrugged one shoulder. "Eh, not today. That's not to say you won't go off to Stanford someday and become some big-shot lawyer. Just, not yet. Give your mom and me a little more time with you as a kid, okay? And even if you don't do that. If the books aren't for you, that's fine. There's a lot more to life than books."

The smile came back to Will's features, revealing his very Sam-like dimples. "Yeah. There's cars."

"And girls. Don't forget girls," Dean added wistfully. Then he turned serious. "No sex until you're sixteen. In front of your mother, it's twenty-one. Got me?"

Will nodded, cracking up. He knew perfectly well that Dean trusted him to make his own decisions about becoming intimate with the opposite sex.

"Yeah, dad. I got it. Now let's close this thing up. I'm starving."


	16. Thunderstruck

"Daddy? Can I have ice cream before bed?" Sammy asked, looking up at Dean with large hazel eyes with long thick lashes. The four-year-old sat on the bottom bunk of a bunk bed that until a year or two ago had held both boys. Then Will's insane growth spurts had started, and Dean and Jo bought him a full sized bed that currently took up a large portion of the room Sam and Will shared.

When his parents offered to give him the guest bedroom for his own, and then Sammy protested loudly, Will had merely shrugged. The fifteen-year-old didn't seem to mind sharing with his little brother. Not yet, anyway.

Dean huffed a sigh. Sammy smiled like an angel. In a cartoon world, Sammy would've been wearing a golden halo that went 'tink' at that moment.

Even though Sam was far cuddlier than Will had been at his age, Sammy was definitely Dean's son. The little boy was intense, and sometimes short tempered--less able to go with the flow. Dean knew that well. He wondered if Sam would throw a temper tantrum if he didn't get what he wanted.

"Not tonight, kiddo," Dean said, keeping his voice soft. Will was already dozing in his own bed, worn out from football practice.

Sammy appeared disappointed, but willingly flopped over on his side so his father could cover him with his Batman sheets. "Okay," he said reluctantly. The boy dug around until he found Rambo, the well-worn teddy bear Will had given him when he turned three. Bear and boy both settled in, and Dean gave Sam's buzzed head one last affectionate rub before straightening up, being careful not to bump his head on the upper bunk.

"Night, Dad," Will called after Dean as he left the room.

"Night, dude," Dean replied, fumbling to find the doorknob so he could pull the door shut behind him.

Will grumbled something sleepily that sounded like "Uv yo" while rolling over to further smother himself with his pillow.

"I love you too, daddy!" Sammy virtually shouted, clarifying his older brother's statement.

Dean pulled the door halfway closed. "Love you guys too," he said, and then left them to sleep, flipping off the hall light.

Jo was still up, working on the computer in their bedroom. "Hey," she said, sensing him approaching.

Dean checked out the screen from behind her, coming close enough to rub her shoulders gently with both hands. "Cattle deaths? Where is that?"

"Iowa," she replied, leaning gratefully into his touch. "No other signs. I think it could be natural causes."

"Or vampires," Dean said.

"Or vampires," Jo repeated, smiling a little--the glance she gave him over one shoulder clearly said 'Yeah, like I wasn't about to say that.' "Anyway, I posted the lead on the web site so any hunter traveling through the area can check it out if they have time. There hasn't been much else put up lately, so someone will probably report back about it soon."

"Probably will," Dean said, bending to kiss the top of her head, and then whispered in her ear.

"Come on, let's get to bed. The boys are already halfway to dream land and we have eight whole hours to spend sleeping tonight."

Jo shook her head, barely holding back laughter. She squeezed Dean's wrist when he wrapped both arms around her, enveloping both her chest and the chair back. "Wow, that's so not a statement I would've expected out of you ten years ago."

Dean kissed her cheek, and then her neck. "What can I say? It's been a pleasantly tiring ten years. If Sammy isn't trashing the bathroom while trying to fill up water balloons in the sink, then Will has a football game, or a martial arts tournament, or a guitar lesson. Don't tell him, but sparring with him is starting to really take it out of me. The boy's getting good."

Jo giggled. His face was a little rough after a long day, and he used the fact to his advantage, holding her tight so she couldn't squirm away and nuzzling the sensitive skin at her throat.

It had been a good ten years for the two of them. After Dean got out of the hospital all those years ago, he'd gotten an apartment near Jo's place, and a job. He'd healed, and helped Jo heal—first as her friend, and later as her boyfriend.

They'd gotten married when Will was five. I hadn't been an easy marriage, especially at first. They'd both had issues to work through, but at least they'd both known all about where the problems stemmed from.

Ten years after Sam died, Dean and Jo left Will with Ellen and traveled to Lawrence to visit Sam's grave.

It was a hard time for both of them.

Ten months later, Samuel Dean Winchester was born.

That had been the best day of Dean's life. He had Will, he had Jo, and after eight hours of pure horror, he got to hold the first good thing Dean Winchester had helped create. A perfect baby boy.

In another four months he'd have a perfect baby girl.

Jo pushed herself out of her chair at the computer, rubbing at her back as she made her way to their bed.

"Hey, Dean?" she said. "Do you think you could get me a little ice cream?"

Dean paused, right in the middle of putting tooth paste on his brush. "Seriously?" he asked.

It'd been a few years since Jo had been pregnant with Sammy, but Dean didn't remember having to wait on her quite so much the last time around. Not that he minded—much.

"Please?" she begged, sounding cute.

Dean set down his toothbrush, sighing hopelessly. "You're worse than Sammy," he called.

"That sounds an awful lot like surrender."

Dean shook his head, smiling grimly. Yeah, so he was currently whipped. At least while pregnant there was very little chance Jo would scold him for eating in bed—unless he didn't bring enough to share.

Dean headed downstairs to the kitchen and got out a bowl, dishing up some ice cream. He heard Sammy's light footsteps on the kitchen floor, and turned to smile at the boy.

"Hey, Sammy. Still looking for some ice cream?"

No eager response came. In fact, Sammy looked extremely withdrawn, almost sad.

"Sammy?" Dean asked. Maybe the kid had a fever, or was coming down with stomach flu. "You okay, kiddo?"

Sammy sighed, and when he spoke his tone was way too intensely focused for his years. It was almost comical, to hear that young voice sounding so jaded and run down.

"Dean," Sammy said. "We need to talk."

Dean's blood went cold in his veins. He instinctively pulled back until he felt the counter press into his spinal cord, the ice cream scoop falling from loose fingers.

"Sam?" Dean said.

Sammy nodded once, slowly. "It's your family, Dean. Something's coming for them.

"Something big."

* * *

To be sequeled...


End file.
